


The Art of Betrayal

by katehathaway



Series: The Arts [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Accidental Pregnancy, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Attempted Murder, Blood and Injury, Dark Draco Malfoy, Dark Dramione - Freeform, Dark Hermione Granger, Death Eaters are a London gang, Draco Malfoy is Bad at Feelings, Drinking, Drugs, Gang Violence, Good Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger is an undercover agent, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Minor Character Death, Multi, Oral Sex, POV Hermione Granger, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sex, Smoking, imagine peaky blinders meets harry potter, quite a bit of violence and sex, wwi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:54:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 119,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24376093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katehathaway/pseuds/katehathaway
Summary: Enigmatic gang leader Draco Malfoy is cunning and cut-throat, but with the local authorities in his back pocket he is virtually untouchable. Newly minted secret agent Hermione Granger is tasked with going deep undercover and infiltrating the gang.M for violence, language. Darkish Dramione. 1920s Muggle AU.Updated every Monday 11am EST/4pm GMT
Relationships: Daphne Greengrass & Pansy Parkinson, Daphne Greengrass/Pansy Parkinson, Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott & Harry Potter, Theodore Nott/Harry Potter
Series: The Arts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1793449
Comments: 33
Kudos: 214





	1. Bad Blood

_**The Art of Betrayal** _

_Rating:_ M/E

 _Summary:_ Enigmatic gang leader Draco Malfoy is cunning and cut-throat, but with the local authorities in his back pocket he is virtually untouchable. Newly minted secret agent Hermione Granger is tasked with going deep undercover and infiltrating the gang. M for violence, language. Darkish Dramione. 1920s Muggle AU.

 _Disclaimer:_ I do not own these characters, nor do I claim profit from this work. All credit is due to J.K. Rowling.

 **A/N –** This story is a continuation of a one-shot of the name _Bad Blood_ in my _Only Everything_ short story collection due to the overwhelming request for a continuation ( _thank you!_ ). It is (loosely) influenced by _Peaky Blinders_ as well as _Great Gatsby_ but is not intended to be directly based on either and no previous knowledge or experience on either of them is necessary. It _is_ intended to be quite a dark read so please be advised there _will_ be violence, language, etc.

[Edit: I will not be including trigger warning's so please continue to read at your own risk. However, feel free to message me privately (or review) with any specific questions or concerns pertaining to the dark themes if you have any. Language, violence, character death, near and/or implied sexual assault are all present in this fic.]

I am thrilled to be starting another story with you, and hope you enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 1: Bad Blood**

* * *

_24 December 1924_

_BELOVED BACHELOR MISSING: A REFLECTION OF HIS LIFE AND LEGACY_

_By Rita Skeeter_

_It is with heavy hearts that Britain comes to terms with the horrific truth of Mr. Draco Malfoy's disappearance. He was pronounced missing yesterday after notably failing to show at this year's Christmas Charity Gala at Buckingham Palace. Mr. Malfoy was expected to give a speech as elected Man of the Year. His mother, Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy, was present at the gala but as of this morning, when the official notice of Mr. Malfoy as a missing person was released, withheld from making any comments on his elusive disappearance._

_In honor of Mr. Malfoy's incredibly charitable life and election as Man of the Year, the_ Daily Prophet _has allowed me the distinguished opportunity of writing a reflection on the life of such a young, generous, and kind man and the legacy he left behind. For someone who has been in the spotlight for nearly six years, there is much to cover and I hope to do it all justice as we wait anxiously for any news on Mr. Malfoy's whereabouts and wellbeing._

It's interesting, to say the least, how Rita Skeeter and arguably almost everyone in the United Kingdom believed Draco to be some darling saint sent to cure all illnesses and stop world hunger or something of the like. I knew better. I knew exactly the kind of monster he truly was behind closed doors.

Yet, against every logical cell in my brain, I loved him anyway. Love. Present tense.

You know, reading this pile of rubbish, it occurred to me that perhaps I should reflect on my own life and legacy a bit seeing as it's about to end.

I never really put much thought into how I would die, which is remarkable considering how many times I've faced death. I guess dying for the sake of a loved one is a pretty good way to go. Courageous even. Brave. I can say with absolute certainty that I consider Draco Malfoy to be a loved one of mine, though I wasn't always so sure. In fact, from the very first time we met, perhaps even earlier, I swore to myself I would never fall for a man of his likeness. He was nothing but trouble. I suppose in retrospect it's no surprise that my falling in love with him is the entire reason I'm even in this mess. That I'm about to die. Or worse, get fired.

I know, I know.

I have got to sort out my priorities.

* * *

_1 January 1920_

Hermione Granger was the sort of person who was always prepared. At any given time, one would find approximately three pens, two bobbles, loads of tissues, and a novel on her person. She spent hours and hours reading material on subjects most people found boring or extraneous and studying anything that had even an ounce of relevance to what she was currently working on. Hermione Granger was, plainly put, a hard worker.

It was why her boss had not been at all shocked that she had been available to come into the office on short notice and on a holiday, no less. "It's urgent," he had told her. No other explanation had been given, and no more was needed either. "I'll be right there," she had responded, quickly ditching her casual attire for an office-appropriate dress.

She shook off the snow flurries and handed her coat to the doorman, then hurried up the stairs. Her work was on an ambiguous floor of an ambiguous office building north of the Thames, just like all of the others on this side of London. However, unlike the others in London – including those who shared the same plain building – her work was anything but ordinary, well technically speaking.

Hermione had always admired the police; the brave men – and newly – women who protected the citizens of London and provided them with much-needed safety from the crime ridden city. She'd dreamt of one day joining their ranks and contributing to the greater good, and just a year ago she'd been given that opportunity (the war taking most of their men from them had a lot to do with that, but nonetheless, she was grateful).

She'd passed the entrance exam with flying colors, but in all that time she hadn't once left the bullpen. Secured firmly to her desk and its endless pile of paperwork, Hermione hadn't so much as helped an elderly woman cross the road. It was going to pay off one day, she told herself every morning. They would see her value. They would trust her.

The harsh lighting of the empty office gave an eerie glow. Hermione willed her nerves to settle, the anxiety that perhaps today would be the day she would be assigned a sector and a uniform.

"Come in," Fudge, her boss, said. He fiddled with his bowler hat and gestured to the two uncomfortable looking chairs in front of his desk. She took a seat, her eyes flickering from Fudge to the dark man leaning casually against his desk. "This is Commander Shacklebolt," he added.

The dark man extended a hand to her which she shook, the scowl on his face unmoving. "Hermione Granger," she croaked. Suddenly, she felt very ill. Her boss phoning her in over the holidays was already foreboding, but to have to actual Commander of the City of London and the Metropolitan Police sitting in on their meeting was far worse.

"Miss Granger," Fudge began, taking a seat and sparking a cigarette. "Do you know why you're here?"

"No," she replied. "But I assume you are about to inform me?"

The Commander's eyes glinted, "You are here, Miss Granger, because you are invisible. You have not made a public appearance since your entrance to the force. You haven't even attended any of the trials."

It was hardly something she needed reminding of, but she forced a smile across her face. "That's true."

"I don't mean to offend you." The Commander insisted, though his tone was hardly accommodating. "You see, the fact that you don't have any strong ties to the force is exactly why you are here."

Hermione felt her heart flutter. They were absolutely going to fire her, she thought.

"Miss Granger," Fudge interrupted, handing her a clipping from a newspaper article. "Do you know who this man is?"

Of course, she did. Not one person in the entire city of London wouldn't be able to identify him with his fair hair, impeccable dress, and smug expression. Not to mention the fact that he was practically on every front page over the past year or so, since his return from the war. He had made quite the name for himself.

"Is this a trick question?"

"No, no." Fudge glanced wearily at Shacklebolt, then back at her. "Do you know him?"

"Well, I don't _know_ him, Sir. But this is Draco Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy fortune and the new face of their company." She placed the clipping on his desk, then looked nervously between the two men, both much higher in rank and playing some game she didn't deign to know. "Why does it matter if I know who he is?"

"Well, Miss Granger, we have good reason to believe Mr. Malfoy is involved in some very serious crimes." The Commander stated. "We have tried to catch him, of course, but the man is very good at covering his tracks and losing our tails."

"Crimes?" She asked, disbelieving that London's beloved bachelor could be accused of such things, much less guilty of them.

"Mostly white-collar ones," Fudge informed her with a wave of his hand. He puffed out several clouds of smoke. "Embezzlement, money laundering, tax evasion… the usual for his kind."

"So, why am I here?"

The Commander exchanged a look with her boss, then clasped his hands firmly together. "We need an inside man," he told her. "… or woman, in your case." She blinked several times, barely resisting sputtering nonsense before these two very powerful men.

* * *

Two weeks later, Hermione knocked firmly on an inconspicuous door in the middle of one of the rougher sectors of London and said, "Fortuna major," when the eye slit opened. She was ushered in quickly, then greeted by a solemn Commander Shacklebolt.

"Miss Granger," he nodded, gesturing for her to join him and the others – all men – around the table in the dimly room. "How are you feeling?"

"Nervous," she answered honestly. He didn't say anything else, which was just as well since they both knew there was not much else to be said. What they were doing was dangerous. What they were doing could get her killed.

 _They_ were the Aurors, belonging to an incredibly secret organization within the police agency known as the Ministry which had been created to step in when the Metropolitan Police were unable or unwilling to step in. In this case, both were applicable.

"From this moment on," Shacklebolt told her. "You will be known as Penelope Clearwater, understood?" She nodded. "We curated an impenetrable background for you seeing as Mr. Malfoy will no-doubt look into you as soon as you make contact. He is notoriously cunning, be warned." She nodded again, biting her lower lip. His final words, however, she found most daunting. "This is the last time we will be in contact with you, Miss Granger. You will not hear from us, do you understand? You are going deep, deep undercover. Until you have unbreakable evidence, do not contact us. I repeat, _do not contact us_."

Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat. Understood. To reveal herself was to die. Mr. Malfoy was a very dangerous man, despite his glamor in the newspapers and his appearances at grand galas. He was not to be trusted.

"Very well," Shacklebolt sighed. "Get going then, and Miss Granger?"

"Yes?"

"Good luck."

* * *

This was perfect, just bloody perfect.

Hermione, well technically Penelope Clearwater, was supposed to be a gifted assistant (for an accomplished and wealthy family who was actually not fictitious but had been paid well by the Ministry for their involvement in this top-secret case). How exactly was she supposed to show how talented of an assistant she was and how beneficial she would be to the young Mr. Malfoy if she couldn't even drive a car.

In her defense, she had never driven a car. Had not even so much as owned one. Only the extremely wealthy had the luxury to afford such extravagance since they had only just become part of the market a year ago and were still quite expensive to own and operate. Hermione was, of course, not part of the upper class and had never been. Though her parents were not poor by any means, both dentists with their own flourishing practice, they still had never spoiled her with unnecessary purchases.

She wondered briefly if the brilliant Commander Shacklebolt had ever considered her actual background when creating her undercover identity. Surely if he did, she wouldn't be currently standing on the side of the road with the hood propped and absolutely no idea of what to do about starting the car.

The road she found herself stranded on was a quiet, winding one that was located on the outskirts of London between where the rougher sectors ended, and the posh country homes began. When the roaring of an engine brought her attention to the road, Hermione waved frantically for them to stop and help her; if there was any way for her not to be late to meet with Mr. Malfoy's financial advisor, then she would have to take it.

Except, when the car slowed and pulled behind hers, she nearly had a heart attack upon seeing who was in it. Hermione fumbled with some important looking wiring under the propped hood and yanked several of them loose, then wiped her hands on her dark skirt and slipped them quickly back into her gloves before stepping aside with a nervous smile plastered on her face.

"Hello," the tall, dark-haired man said with a polite grin. "Do you need help?"

"Yes, please," she breathed.

The other man followed behind his friend and offered her a beaming smile, practically blinding her with all of its golden glory. He was attractive, she noticed. Far more attractive than any black-and-white, grainy newspaper clipping could ever attempt to capture.

"Well, you're in good hands," Mr. Malfoy told her as he and his friend came up beside her. "Theo here is an excellent engineer." The dark-haired man, with blazing blue eyes, peered under the hood of her car before shooting his friend a playful smirk.

Then, he turned to her with an earnest expression, "I'm really not, Miss, just good at working with my hands." At the possibly double entendre, Hermione flushed furiously and averted her gaze.

Mr. Malfoy laughed, and it lit up his entire face. His brilliant eyes sparkled in the afternoon sunlight, displaying a gorgeous shade of silver that she imagined would be difficult to not be enthralled by. It was no wonder the papers were so in love with him. Spending just seconds in his presence had already made her heart do something murderous in her chest.

He looked at her with a cheeky smile, then proffered his hand to her. She took it, and he bent to place a kiss on her gloved hand. "What is your name, Miss?"

"He - " A cough. "Err, Penelope Clearwater."

If he noticed her almost-slip, then he was polite enough not to mention it, and Hermione silently counted her blessings. She really needed to work on that because she was sure Commander Shacklebolt would be most upset if she went and got herself killed before she even collected any notable evidence on this supposed criminal. Though, as he stood before her, she couldn't imagine him to be guilty of anything aside from his godly looks.

"I am Draco Malfoy," he told her, then nodded to his friend who was elbow deep in grease. "That's Theodore Nott."

"Just Theo," the man said, pulling a handkerchief from his pinstripe suit and wiping his hands on it. He gave her a sorrowful nod, "I'm afraid there's nothing that can be done about your vehicle at the moment, Miss."

"Oh," she sighed.

"Never mind that," Mr. Malfoy said, waving a hand toward her car. "I can get someone to come and work on it properly first thing tomorrow. For now, how about you let us give you a ride to wherever you need to go?"

"I couldn't possibly, Mr. Malfoy," she started, but he cut her off with a charming smile and beckoned for her to follow him and Theo to their car.

"I insist," he told her. "Also, please call me Draco. Mr. Malfoy is far too formal and only reminds me of my father." She nodded, then let him guide her into the front seat and tried not to flush as he sat on one side of her with Theo behind the wheel on the other. "Where were you heading to?"

She bit her lip, "Malfoy Mansion, actually."

"Ah," Draco exchanged a knowing glance with Theo. "I take it you're the interviewee that Blaise was scheduled to meet with, Miss Clearwater?" He must have caught the brief grimace across her face and laughed. "You don't like your name?" There was an unspoken inquiry that reminded her sharply of the warnings Shacklebolt had given her about how dangerous he was and silently scolded herself for forgetting.

"I'm not used to being called that is all," she replied, trying to sound confident. "Everyone calls me Penelope." She lied.

"Penelope," he repeated, testing the name on his lips. "I don't think you look like a Penelope."

She saw something glint darkly behind his eyes, turning them into a dark and stormy grey. Hermione fixed him with her best flirtatious smile, "No? Then what do I look like?"

"Like a shiny new penny, all bronze and eager to be of value." He told her, his words ringing unforgivingly true. The hint of anything dark and dangerous gone in an instant, and a brilliant smile warmed his face, bringing it back to its former glory. To the Draco Malfoy that all of Britain had fallen in love with over the past year.

"Penny it is, then." She dimpled, returning his smile before directing her attention to the road ahead, noticing that they were about to pass through one of the rougher, poorer sectors just outside of the rich, new neighborhoods.

"Draco," Theo muttered, his hands tightening on the steering wheel.

Hermione watched as Draco surveyed the streets, then gave Theo a clipped response of, "Stop the car." He turned to her and said in a low, warning tone, "Stay here, Penny. Whatever happens next, _do not get out of the car_." In a single swift movement, both he and Theo were out of the car and lowering their newsboy caps – she noticed with heightened intrigue that the minute they did, every person milling about the dirty streets immediately fled and hid – as they strode down the cobblestone paths and turned into a dark alley.

Although she was terrified, Hermione hopped out of the safety of the vehicle and followed the two of them down the dark alley. There was no way she was going to collect and useful evidence if she didn't take risks like this, and besides, how else was she expected to discover exactly what crimes Draco was guilty of or how he carried them out if she did everything he told her to do?

"What the fuck are you doing here, Malfoy?" Someone snapped. His appearance was a stark comparison of Theo and Draco's with his suit not well-fitted and covered in soot. His hair, dark as night, stood on all-ends and made him look younger while at the same time the spectacles that framed his thin face and made him look years older. In reality, Hermione would've guessed his true age was not far off from hers.

"We own these fucking streets, Potter," Theo spat, taking Hermione by complete surprise with his malicious tone and vulgar vocabulary.

"Not _these_ , fucker," he growled. The three ginger-haired men, all equally as filthy and starved as so-called Potter, standing behind him glowered at the two sophisticated men before them and the one to his right – not one of the identical twins – whispered in his ear. Potter's head snapped up, "Who's the bird?"

All of their heads turned to look at Hermione, and she felt her swallow get caught in the back of her throat. Her eyes flickered from Theo's, predictably hostile from his previous argument with Potter, to Draco's; his eyes were dark and unreadable, though she could tell from the tension in his shoulders and the clenching of his hands into fists that he was livid.

Luckily, he spared her any harsh comments and turned back to the others. "None of your business, Potter."

"Oh?" The other man taunted. "Is she important to you? Perhaps, she has something to do with the sudden influx of Aunti in the streets. Is that how you're funding your empire now, Malfoy?"

"No idea what you're on about," Draco replied, his tone shockingly calm.

"Oh, please," Potter scoffed. "As if you don't have a hand in that. I can't think of anyone else wealthy enough in this city to sell crystals that fine-grade."

"Well, you would know, wouldn't you?" Theo sneered.

The ginger beside Potter, his apparent second-in-command, flushed instantly at the slight and produced a blade. The rest of his side following suit, all brandishing blades at Theo, Draco, and now Hermione who had moved to stand behind the two men she came with.

"I'll cut your venomous tongue out of your mouth, you Death Eater scum!" He threatened, lips snarling.

Theo chuckled, "I'd like to see you try," then he opened his arms teasingly at the dark-haired man and stepped closer into his range with no visible weapon ready. "Come on, Potter, put your blade where your filthy Order-mouth is!" Hermione inhaled sharply, suddenly very worried for him; he and Draco were easily outnumbered, and she was quite the liability, but neither of them seemed worried. If anything, they seemed amused.

Potter brandished his blade, placing it just below Theo's jaw and backing him into the brick wall; his hand holding it close enough to his throat to draw a bit of blood while his other arm pressed the tall figure firmly against the hard surface. Theo merely laughed.

Draco had shifted to stand in front of Hermione, holding out his arm as if his strong stance alone would protect her from the three menacing, knife-wielding men facing them. He took off his flat cap, holding it securely in his other hand and waving it before them as he spoke. "Come any closer, Weasleys, and none of you will make it home for your watered soup and stale bread."

"Fuck you!" One of the twins growled.

Hermione was shoved hastily aside, colliding harshly with the brick wall opposite Theo; she slid to the wet ground and blinked back tears to see one of the blades sitting not far from her, and Draco storming toward the others – the Weasleys – with his cap angled toward them. She wondered briefly if she was about to witness his horrible death at the hands of three violent gang members but was shocked to see him hold his own against them.

His fist shot out, squarely connecting with the non-twin's nose and sending him stumbling backwards, hands flying up to catch the pool of blood coming from the shattered bone. While he was momentarily out of commission, Draco took on the twins, wildly throwing his cap toward them as well as his fists; the three of them were landing blows on each other almost equally, though she could tell from the growing cuts on the twins and the lack of blood on Draco, that he was the far more skilled fighter.

Meanwhile, Theo had turned the tables on Potter and had him pinned against the wall with his fists clenched around the other's lapels. Hermione caught the glint of silver in Potter's hands and screamed, _"_ _Theo!"_ but he had already bent his head and knocked it into Potter's, leaving him with a massive welt and cut on his forehead.

It occurred to Hermione in that moment that Theo and Draco weren't without weapons. The fold in their caps must have a blade of some kind in it, and she found herself bewildered by the brilliance of their weapon.

There was a loud grunt from the other side of the alley where Draco had rendered the twin's unconscious, their lanky figures crumpling to the ground with a thud. He stumbled backwards for a moment, taking deep and laborious breaths, then steadied himself against the wall and turned to look at her. In that instance of vulnerability, the last brother chose to throw himself at Draco and bring him to the ground, rolling on top of him and pummeling fists at his face.

" _Draco,"_ Hermione shrieked, frozen. Something in her told her to help him, to protect him. She fumbled around, crawling toward the blade the other man had thrown at them earlier and taking it between her trembling hands. Never in her life had she had to endure such violence.

However, before she could turn back to the brawl, there were grimy hands wrapping around her neck and pressing her face into the ground. Hermione struggled, instinctually bucking against the weight of the man bearing down on her, but then the voice of her trainer at the academy kicked in and she flung her arm out, intent on digging the knife into any flesh she could.

There was a disgruntled scream and then miraculously the weight on her lifted. Hermione spun and kicked the ginger man off of her with every effort she could scrape up, her chest heaving as she gasped for air.

Draco yanked the man back and shoved him up against the brick wall, his lips pulled back to bare his teeth. "How dare you put a fucking hand on her." He snarled. "Have you absolutely no manners, Weasley, attacking a woman?" He shoved the man against the wall, likely concussing him. "You and your fucking Order swear you're all high and mighty, when you're just as much of a filthy gang as the Death Eaters. More so, in my opinion, since we don't go around messing with innocent women and children, eh?"

"Innocent?" He choked. "She was brandishing a fucking blade!"

Draco twisted the other man's arm farther behind his back until he gave an agonizing cry of pain. "I don't give a single _fuck_ if she had a knife, Weasley. She could have had a fucking revolver aimed at your pathetic skull for all I care," he seethed. "Don't fucking touch her."

Theo came up behind Draco and pulled him away from the man, then shoved him toward Hermione as he glared at the spluttering man. "Potter, I believe your friend over here could use some help." The dark-haired man Theo had been fighting was adjusting his broken spectacles and clambering to get up from the ground, sparing Theo a vicious look before angling himself toward his entourage.

Draco clapped Theo on his back, "Let's get the fuck out of here, Nott." Then, he helped Hermione to her feet and narrowed his eyes at her, "You alright, Pen?"

"I - " She hesitated, letting her mind catch up as the buzzing of her muscles disbanded into exhaustion. "I'm fine, yeah. Thank you." Without another word, he took her elbow in his iron-clad grip and directed her toward the car.

* * *

"You _what_?"

A stylish woman stormed back and forth, pacing before the fireplace of a grand sitting room with her hands on her hips and her hair – half platinum blonde and half jet black – coming loose from her previously perfect chignon as she whipped her head furiously around. Hermione's shoulders snapped back at the shrillness of the woman's voice, but Draco and Theo seemed unbothered, as if this sort of thing happened all the time.

"What exactly did you think you were bloody doing?" She demanded.

"Mother," Draco sighed, removing the damp cloth from his swollen, split lip. It was the only evidence that he had been injured in the street fight.

"Don't," she warned, wagging a disapproving finger at him before storming over to a bar tray and pouring herself a tall glass of dark liquid from one of the many crystal decanters. She took a large, unladylike gulp, then narrowed her gaze at the two men, avoiding Hermione entirely. "What happened?"

Theo's icy blue eyes flickered over Hermione, "Narcissa," he ventured in a cautious tone.

"Oh, forget about her. She might as well overhear this, too. The poor girl has already seen too much," her gaze darkened, relaying something that Hermione didn't understand but both of them seemed to, nodding along. "Any bloody minute now, gentlemen. What the fuck happened?"

If Hermione hadn't been shocked by their hidden vulgarity before, then she was now. For a family whose pristine manners and saint-like demeanor was always in the news, being adored by all, they were contrasting in nearly every way imaginable behind closed doors.

"Members of the Order," Theo supplied. "They were walking around the Wandsworth like they fucking owned the place." He, like Draco, hardly had any noticeable injuries from the fight, save for a few cuts.

The woman – Narcissa Malfoy, Hermione deducted – huffed. "I've _told_ you. I've told both of you a million times! You are not to engage them the night before any public events. Now, how the bloody hell do you expect me to cover up any bruises – or these cuts, Nott! – so that neither of you look like the heathens you are in front of the cameras, hm?"

"It's not like we planned on fighting them in the middle of the streets," Theo groaned.

"A likely story," she spat, taking another sip of the whiskey. "You say that every time and it's starting to lose all its meaning."

"Mother," Draco began, but she cut him off again.

"Don't you start with me, Draco. You're lucky that the Order has absolutely no credentials in the media given their own reputation, but this one?" She gestured to Hermione. "Something has to be done about her. Why was she even there?"

"I told her to stay in the car," he said between gritted teeth.

"Well!" Narcissa chuckled, sending shivers down Hermione's spine. "That didn't work, did it, my darling son?"

"Clearly," he replied, voice clipped.

"That doesn't explain why she was even accompanying you two in the first place." The woman noted.

Theo crossed his arms, leaning against the velvet armchair Draco was lounging in. "She's the woman Blaise was supposed to be interviewing today for the assistant position." Hermione felt all of their eyes on her before they turned back to each other, continuing to talk about her as if she wasn't even in the room. "Miss Penelope Clearwater?" He said to Narcissa.

She choked on a laugh, "As if I'm supposed to remember the name of every bloody bimbo Blaise drags into here looking for one job or another." She refilled her glass, swirling the dark liquid around. "Doesn't matter, she's still a liability. She knows too much."

"I know, Mother," Draco assured her, his jaw clenched.

"Good."

After a few minutes of silence, Narcissa sighed and sank back into a loveseat, eying the two boys before her. "What the fuck were you two thinking? Of all people and of all days and with someone else there to witness your misdeeds?"

"It was Potter," Theo grumbled, his face contorting at the mention of the boy's name.

"Bloody hell," Narcissa murmured into her glass. Her tired gaze fell on her son, "Draco, you're really going to have to try harder to keep Theo away from that retched, filthy boy."

He sighed, a hint of a smirk twitching at his lips. "I know, Mother."

She emptied the glass again, then set it aside with a loud clang as it hit the marble table. "You think you two can take on Potter and – what, the Weasleys?" Theo nodded obediently. "– You think you can take them on by yourselves, hm? Rid of us of those good-for-nothing miscreants? They have bloody army, Draco! The entire fucking Order of the Phoenix would be on our doorsteps by first light if we dared to kill one of their precious members. You think we can handle that, hm?"

"Yes, I think, Mother." Draco told her. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, toying with the pink-stained cloth in his scraped hands. "That's what I do. I think." He stood, poured himself a drink and downed it before continuing, standing over her, his voice low. "I think… so, that you don't have to."

Narcissa didn't drop her gaze, didn't surrender to him.

A timid voice sounded from the other side of the double door, and Draco reacted by backing away from his mother and throwing the cloth into the fire. Theo, recognizing the signs of dismissal, straightened from his position and crossed over to where Hermione sat, watching this entire interaction in dumbfounded silence.

"It seems that dinner is ready," Draco said.

"The girl." Narcissa reminded him.

"The girl has a name, Mother, and she can at least stay for dinner, hm?" He replied. "I heard Dobby prepared his famous roast and it would be a crime for her not to have ever tasted it." At her dubious expression, he added, "Don't worry, it won't change anything."

"It better not."

Hermione felt her throat tighten at the clear threat on her life but found no words as her tongue sat heavy and thick and completely useless in her mouth. Theo's arm was on her shoulder then, and his lips at her ear, instructing her to kindly follow him to the dining area. Hermione exhaled a shaky breath, scared out of her mind and finding her previous blade-wielding bravery to be shriveled up and dried out, and followed Theo out of the room and down the hall.

* * *

The first thing Hermione noticed after taking a seat at Narcissa's enormous dining table was the inequality of men and women present. There were seven men, though all of them appeared to be around Draco's age, and only four women including Hermione. It was evident that this was not a celebratory dinner where the numbers would have been far more even given Narcissa's stature but instead it seemed to be more of a meeting.

There was mindless chatter as the plates were brought out until a beautiful, ebony-skinned boy stared at Hermione with curious eyes and finally said, "Who are you exactly?"

She immediately looked to Draco, sitting at the head of the table with Narcissa on his right and Theo on his left next to Hermione, for a sign of approval. He nodded wordlessly to her, something sparking behind his eyes. "I'm Penelope Clearwater," she supplied with a strained, polite smile.

The man sat back with a confident smirk, "Ah," his eyes surveyed her less-than-pristine appearance with amused eyes. "That explains why you never showed for your interview this afternoon."

"You're Mr. Zabini?" Theo began immediately choking on his water, his shoulders shaking with laughter. Hermione bit her lip, resisting the urge to ask what he thought was so amusing or if she had said something horrifyingly inaccurate and embarrassing.

"Yes," the other man assured her, shooting daggers at Theo as he chewed on a vegetable. "Mr. Blaise Zabini, though most everyone calls me Blaise."

From farther down the table, one of the other two women whom Hermione hadn't been introduced to (she hadn't been introduced to any of them, rudely enough, but she suspected they didn't find it worth it seeing as she had completely ruined her potential employment here) cleared her throat, or stifled a chuckle it was hard to tell, and looked back and forth between Draco and Narcissa. "I take it she won't be filling that position, then?"

"No," Narcissa replied. "She won't be." Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat and tried to hide her anger and disappointment at her hasty reply by drinking half of her glass of water.

Then, like children being let loose on the playground, the entirety of the dinner party began conversing loudly over one another about anything and everything. At first, it calmed Hermione but as she listened closely to their individual conversations, she felt less and less sure their sudden comfort in her presence was a good sign. It seemed that they no longer cared what she overheard them say, most of which being criminal in nature.

"So," Blaise said, leaning over to talk to the man next to him. "Marcus, what do you think of those new Tommy guns, hm?"

"Bloody fucking heavy," the pale, dark-haired man – Marcus – replied with a huff.

The man across from him then chimed in with a mouthful of bread to say, "That's because you aren't the strapping young man you used to be, eh?" He laughed obnoxiously, taunting the other. He turned to one of the women next to him, the petite blonde one of the two, and said, "What do you think, Daph, you think Marcus needs to go back in the trenches and lose that gut?"

The woman narrowed her eyes at him, not replying, and instead turned to the young woman next to her who had spoken up earlier. Her raven hair cropped and curled in a similar fashion that would likely make supermodels styling the new look like plain schoolgirls, immediately making Hermione envious of their easily manageable hair and perfect complexions and style.

"Pans, did you see that the trains will be down until the end of next week? We'll have to call a car to drive us back." The blonde – Daph – said. The other woman rolled her eyes and grimaced, poking uninterestedly at her peas.

"It's ridiculous," Pans complained. "I'm not sitting in a car for that bloody long. I want a first-class train ticket in my hand by the end of _this_ week and a glass of Chardonnay in the other. Don't they know we're practically Death Eater's ourselves?" – the man named Marcus coughed, "Don't make me laugh, Pans," but she ignored him – "How hard can it be, honestly?" The blonde then nodded her agreement and the two of them immediately devolved into a conversation comparing what Hermione guessed to be designer dressmakers.

"– one of the finest firearms I've ever handled," Blaise was boasting. When the other two he had previously been in conversation with continued to argue about whether or not it would be worth it to bet on what Hermione presumed to be a racing horse named Bullseye because they knew the race would be fixed, then Blaise turned to Theo and Draco to continue. "It can fire off nearly nine-hundred rounds a minute. Not to mention it's got a stellar range."

Theo took the bait, "Get these from your beloved coppers, did you Zabini?" At the mention of coppers, Hermione felt herself drawn to their conversation and focused on what they were saying while trying to tune out the others. She also noticed that at the same time Narcissa and Draco were exchanging a series of glances. "How much did this little investment cost the company?"

Blaise scoffed, "Please, Nott. Don't insult me."

The two of them continued bantering but Hermione felt herself lose interest as the argument steered away from the criminal act of not only owning military-grade machine guns, but also getting them _from_ the local police. It occurred to her then that when Shacklebolt had said that previous attempts to tail and infiltrate the Malfoys had failed it must have been because the local police were already in their pocket. It confounded her.

She was trying to school her face so as not to reveal any outright opposition to the mention of dirty coppers or what they meant to her specifically when she caught Draco's eye; his eyes, she noticed, were always a dead give-away for when his body was unreadable. At the moment, his hands were relaxed as they cut at his roast and his shoulders were slumped as he leaned to the side to listen to Narcissa's quiet commentary. However, his eyes were not light and silvery and playful like how they had been when she first met him. When he had been smiling down on her with all of his godlike splendor. Instead, they were shadowy and haunting and cruel.

His punishing glance reminded her how insistent Narcissa had been that Hermione was not to be trusted. That she was a problem that needed to be dealt with immediately. That she was unwelcome. It sent shivers down her spine and caused the hair on the back of her arm to stand on its ends. It scared her.

Mr. Draco Malfoy, the papers wonderful golden boy had a dark and dangerous soul, she thought. They had no idea. They loved him, they wanted him, they practically _worshipped_ him. It was all a lie. He was not an angel, a saint sent to lift them up and save them from this sodden earth. No. He was the devil incarnate, a threat to everything good. He had a hidden agenda; she was sure of it.

The investigator inside of her told her she needed to stay on this case, needed to stay on with the Malfoys in any way that she could, and learn everything there is to know about their evil empire. Commander Shacklebolt had been on to something, sure, with his accusations of the Malfoys being guilty of their aristocratic white-collar crimes. Hermione figured they most likely were guilty of those various crimes, but she also knew now that there was so much more that they were guilty of. There was so much more for her to uncover.

This was only the beginning.

There was the ambiguity of the Death Eaters to start. Who were they? What was their goal? Were they just some high-class gang that ran the streets of London with violence and oppression? Or, did they have a larger agenda that involved a political movement with Draco and Theo as the new, young and attractive face of the company and a hidden vengeance?

Hermione's internal reverie was interrupted as there was a loud clatter of glassware followed by an immediate scream from one of the men sitting beside her. He flung his arms about wildly, throwing plates and dishes and glassware all over the place. His screams pierced through the room and drew everyone's attention to him as he scooted back in his chair hastily trying to escape from some ghost or another that no one else could see.

"They're going to kill me!" He yelled, his eyes darting frantically around the room as he swung fists at nothing. "They're going to kill me!"

Half of the men at the table were on their feet instantly, their arms around him and dragging him to the floor. Draco and Theo were on top of him, bending his arms behind his back and applying a pressure that made Hermione squirm uncomfortably because surely the joints couldn't handle that angle for very long before snapping.

"They're going to kill me!" He repeated over and over again, his face flushing a deep crimson as the men pressed his face into the floor. The others wrangled on top of his feet and torso, helping Draco and Theo keep him secured to the hard floor.

"Vince!" Draco boomed. "Oi, Vince!"

"They're going to kill me!" The man – Vince – screamed, though the more he said it the more it dissolved into racking sobs. Pleads. "They're going to kill me, they're going to kill me,"

"Vince, you are home," Draco assured him in a calmer tone. The man's sobs continued though it seemed that the constant shushing of Theo was helping to settle his fit. "Vince, you are home. You're not in France, you are in England. You are home."

"They're not going to kill you," Theo chimed in. "You are a man. You are not an artillery shell, Vince."

"You're not a whizbang," Draco went on in a quiet, soothing voice despite the increased pressure on the man's elbow and wrist, pushing it to its breaking point. Hermione wondered if the pain was actually helping this man or if it was just their way of dealing with violence. More violence. "You're not a whizbang, Vince, you are a human being, eh?"

His sobs started to decrease in frequency and volume, leaving him quietly crying and gasping for air. Theo patted his shoulders as Draco slowly let him go, signaling for the others to do so as well. "You're alright," Theo assured him. "Come on, get up."

Hermione, from her prime seat next to the commotion, saw the man's eyes come back to reality and take in the mess of the dining table and the group of comrades encircling him. He inhaled laboriously, "Ah, fucking hell, did I do it again? Did I do it again, Draco?"

"Yeah," Draco replied, mouth tight and eyes blank. "You did it again, Vince." He patted his friend on his back then cupped a hand around the man's neck and cheek. "You have to stop doing that, Vince." There was a unanimous exhale among those in the room who had witnessed this ordeal, and Hermione felt a sinking feeling at how horrible the war had impacted the men who fought in it.

Vince let out several shaky breaths, then locked eyes with Narcissa across the room. "I'm so sorry Mrs. Malfoy. I'm so, so sorry!" She responded with an amiable nod of understanding, then returned to her glass of wine without a word.

"Come on, Vince," another man said coming up to him. He was nearly a head shorter than his friend and about twice as wide. "Let's get you to bed, eh? We'll send for some hot whiskey and a bar of chocolate. Let's go, Vince. Let's go."

"Alright, Greg." He mumbled, head down and face flushed with embarrassment. Hermione bit her lip as the two of them disappeared from the dining room. Theo let out a low whistle, then patted Draco on the back before coming to stand behind Hermione. She didn't meet his eyes. She was terrified.

"Let's go, too," Theo said to her, one hand gripping her shoulder threateningly. It was a warning, she knew, not to disobey. She nodded numbly, and let Theo lead her out of the dining room and down the hall. The minute they were on their own, away from the commotion and watchful eyes, Hermione couldn't hold her tongue anymore.

"Where are we going?" She pressed him. "Where are you taking me?"

"You ask too many questions," Theo noted, not making eye contact with her. She glowered at him and wished he and Draco didn't make her head spin with their expert change in demeanor. One minute they would be smiling and joking and flirting with her, then the next they were withdrawn and cold and throwing razor-embedded caps at foes.

* * *

He brought her to another sitting room, a smaller one than earlier, and gestured for her to sit. She did. He waited by the door, seemingly studying the dirt under the white crescents of his nails. Hermione bounced her ankle impatiently, wanting to know what the bloody hell was going on in this godforsaken manor.

"I need to use the toilettes," she said, breaking the silence. He shot her an exasperated look, but she merely bounced her legs pointedly and arched her brows at him. He sighed, then nodded for her to go through the door behind him.

"Last door on the left," Theo told her. "You have three minutes."

Hermione hurried down the corridor, checking over her shoulder and thanking god when she didn't see Theo's icy eyes watching her. She quickly assessed the paintings on the wall and tried to recall which way she'd come in. There had to be a way out of this blasted house one way or another. Surely, she was bright enough to find one. There had been something extremely sinister in Draco's eyes as they flickered from her to Theo before the latter took her away, and she didn't trust it at all.

"There's something you aren't telling me," came a voice from behind one of the many doors in the corridor.

Hermione came to an abrupt halt, then placed her ear gingerly against the hard wood. When the muted voices weren't any clearer, she moved to peer between the slit in the door to see Draco smoking, his feet propped up on a large desk, and Narcissa standing over him.

"While you and your father were off at war, I was bloody running this company so don't bother trying to pretend this has anything to do with my being a woman." There was a brief pause as Draco inhaled slowly, then exhaled smoke rings. "I'm still every bit part of this as you are, so tell me. Nothing's changed, Draco."

"Except something has changed, Mother," Draco replied. "Father didn't come back. None of them came back." He puffed out several more breaths of smoke. "But we did. I did. So, now I'm in charge of this, do you understand?"

"Draco,"

"I'm in charge of the whole bloody thing, Mother. They all look to me. I'm the leader of the fucking Death Eaters now, alright?" He swung his feet from the desk, disposed of his cigarette in an ash tray and narrowed his gaze at her. "I need you, Mother. I do. But trust me, yeah? Trust that I will tell you whatever is going on in my fucking head when the time is right."

"That's a load of crap," Narcissa flung at him. She took one of the cigarettes from his pack and lit it, exhaling smoke herself before collapsing into the seat behind her. She shook her head at her son, "You won't tell me anything until it's too late. You aren't the only one who can think, Draco. What is it, hm?"

He leaned back in his chair, regarding her with careful eyes. Hermione took a moment to check her surroundings before returning her attention to what was unfolding before her. Perhaps it would be something useful she could report back to Shacklebolt when she escaped this hellhole.

"I can always tell when you're hiding something." Narcissa added, eying her son. "Speak."

"It's the opium again." Draco finally told her.

Narcissa placed the half-used cigarette in the ash tray, "I thought that was being dealt with?"

"It was," he lamented. "I was going to have Flint take a few of the other boys who want to be recruited to go and raid one of the Order's homes. Lupin. You know, the lanky greasy one?" Narcissa nodded. Draco went on, "But today, when Theo and I jumped Potter and the Weasley brothers," – "Idiotic," she mumbled – "I discovered they weren't the ones distributing it around the city."

"How do you know?" She asked him, her brows furrowed conspiratorially.

He cleared his throat, pouring a dark liquid from a crystal decanter into two matching glasses. He handed her one, then downed half of the other one. "They told me as much." He finished the glass, then refilled it. "They think we are the ones cycling the drugs around."

"Hm," she grunted. "That's a problem."

He nodded, then pinched at the bridge of his nose. "I know. We've got to figure out who's making it, selling it. We need to find them."

Narcissa stared at him, her eyes flickering back and forth, surveying the blank expression on his face. Then, she angled herself toward him and hit him over the head several times. Draco took each blow with little more than a wince.

"Draco!" She scolded. "So, that's why there's been new coppers on the streets every week? Looking for this Aunti lab?" His mouth formed a thin line, but ultimately, he nodded. "Draco, you know we can't be seen involved in this sort of business. It's dangerous for our men to be out there knocking on doors, pulling out rifles, and searching for the drugs. The new coppers haven't been on our pay roll long enough not to snitch! You don't want to lose another man, do you? Like Yaxley?"

"Of course not," he snapped. "We don't have enough members as it is. I'm not going to send our men scouring the streets of London on no intel. I'm not that thick, Mother."

She tapped her foot petulantly, "You're not going to try and use this as a new political strategy, either, are you?"

"What, and claim to be cleaning up London, ridding it of every ounce of opium? Fuck no. Like you said, Mother, we can't be involved in anything even remotely criminal. Appearances are everything." He sighed, fingering the empty glass between his hands. "Are we going to do the usual?" His expressionless face contorting slightly at the inquiry. "About the girl."

"I don't see why not," Narcissa shrugged.

Draco sighed again, exhaling slowly and loudly. "I'll do it," he told her. She arched a brow, questioning him silently. "Don't look at me like that, Mum, I will."

Hermione didn't catch whatever Narcissa said in response because there was the loud creak of a door opening down the hall, causing her to jump back and flatten her skirt as her heart raced. She hurriedly scampered away from where she'd been eavesdropping to see Theo emerge into the corridor with a revolver in his hand. He nodded soldierly to her, but confused, Hermione turned over her shoulder to see Draco standing in the hall.

The two of them came up to her, entrapping her in the dimly light corridor with no hope of escaping now. She felt her pulse skyrocket and breathing hitch. Theo flipped the gun around, tossing it back and forth and twirling it between his deft fingers.

"Come on, Penny," Theo said, trying to guide her further down the poorly lit manor to some unseen horror. She jerked her hand away from his outstretched grasp, fumbling backwards until her spine collided with the wall behind her. Theo sighed, toying with his gun before handing it to Draco, who leveled it to her head. "Draco," Theo warned. "Narcissa won't want you to get blood on her carpet."

"No, but it doesn't look like Miss Penelope Clearwater here has any intention of following us out to the garden, either." He clicked the trigger into position, then pressed the chilled end of the barrel to her forehead. "Any last words, Penny?" Draco asked, cocking his head to the side.

Hermione tried not to panic; she tried to read his eyes, but they were vacant, cloudy and apathetic.

"Longbottom," she said, her voice rasp.

"What?" Theo questioned. His dark brows furrowed. "What did she say?" His icy, merciless eyes shifted to a more forgiving shade as he glanced between Hermione and Draco. "What did you say?"

"Longbottom," Hermione repeated. "That's who is making and distributing the opium throughout London."

She watched as Draco's eyes refocused on the scene before him; on her. He didn't move the revolver, instead pressing it further into her skin and pinning her head to the wall. "How do you know that?" – Theo shot him an accusatory glare, "How does she even know _about_ that?" – and Hermione had to admit they were both fair questions.

The second, of course, she knew from accompanying them on their street brawl earlier. At the time, she had wondered what they had really been talking about and had been racking her brain for the code words civilians used regarding the numerous drugs on the streets. Molly. Snow. Bennies. Aunti. It had been bothering her since she heard that scraggily boy, Potter, say it and it wasn't until Draco brought up the opium influx in the city that it had registered with her as to why it had been so familiar.

That would be how she knew the first question. Among her many days and nights chained to the desk, Hermione had overseen hundreds of files of ongoing cases that active officers were dealing with in the dirty, crime-ridden streets of London. The sudden appearance of high-grade, near-professional distribution of opium had been one of those cases. It eluded all of the officers, including her, until Potter had said something, had practically accused Draco of being responsible.

She presumed since his public appearance was vastly dissimilar to what he was actually like, then the same could be applied, say, to someone who was regarded as one of the most brilliant chemists of their generation.

However, given how Hermione came to know this individual, it wasn't like she could answer neither Draco nor Theo's questions.

"How the fuck do you know who is responsible for the flood of opium in the city?" Draco pushed. His eyes were slits with the pupils constricted like that of a snake, ready to attack.

Hermione refrained from biting her lip and willed herself to calm down and pretend there wasn't a firearm ready to blow her brains out. She needed to find some way to tie herself to their predicament. If she didn't, then she was as good as dead already.

"I've spent enough time around you today to know that information is key," she told Draco, surprising herself with how steady her voice was.

"Tell me or I'll blow your fucking brains out."

Her gaze flickered to Theo, noticing the tension in his slender limbs, then back to Draco. "No," she said. "If I tell you, you'll blow my fucking brains out." Hermione had never sworn in her life, not counting the hundreds of times she said bloody, of course, but she figured now was a good enough time to start. Every other woman in this messed-up family-organization-cult seemed to do so anyway. "Besides," she continued. "You need me alive or you'll have no chance of finding the Longbottom's, much less meeting with them."

He considered her, and Hermione let out a sigh of relief as he lowered the gun and placed it back in Theo's waiting hands. "Fine," he told her, not breaking their eye contact. "But you stay here." He nodded to Theo who disappeared down the hall following unspoken instructions. "As my mother keeps reminding me, you know too much. Looks like you'll be getting that position you came here for after all, Miss Clearwater."

"Penny," she corrected him. At that, a ghost of a smile teased at his perpetually downturned lips and Hermione took her first real breath since walking into this horrifying place.

* * *

The room she'd been put in was far nicer and far bigger than the one she was used to, though she supposed anything was nicer than the squalor she called a flat. It was clearly one of the advantages of living on disposable income, though whether or not that ridiculous income was funded legally and rightfully was less clear every minute she spent in Draco's presence.

Although Hermione was frightened beyond comprehension, she was at least glad that not only had she successfully avoided death that evening, but she had also secured a place in the thick of this mess. She was sure that combined with her investigatory skills and unrelenting diligence, her presence at the enigmatic gang-leader and beloved-bachelor Mr. Draco Malfoy's side would yield plentiful of evidence. Evidence she was quite certain would implicate him in more than what Shacklebolt assumed.

She wondered if her role in uncovering this bounteous information would result in a promotion. At the very least Hermione hoped to see a new uniform waiting for her upon her return and a case file that was not meant for her to file properly, but for her to read up on prior to engaging in its contents on the streets. Perhaps Shacklebolt would even offer her a permanent position on his covert Auror team in his top-secret Ministry organization.

With Hermione's mind racing through the endless possibilities, she found it impossible to fall asleep.

There was no chance of her escaping the manor – it was as impenetrable as a military fortress and as heavily armed; there were even men guarding every entrance and exit – so Hermione was not at all surprised to see that there was no one stationed outside her bedroom door in the middle of the night. It wasn't like she would make it very far in her night slip if she even dared to navigate the maze of the manor's many corridors.

As Hermione walked barefoot through the carpeted halls, peering at what appeared to be original Rembrandt's and Renoir's and Manet's, she heard the unmistakable screams of night terrors ripping through the quiet of the house. They were close by.

She shuffled quickly to the end of the hall, turning right when the screams continued. "Get out! Get out! They're going to blow the whole bloody place up! Move, Nott. _Move_!" It was Draco. She was sure of it. Hermione turned the brass knob of the door on her right and found her suspicions were correct.

Draco was twitching, spasming uncontrollably, in his bed. The covers were getting twisted around his limbs, ensnaring him further. She rushed over to him, throwing her arms across his sweat-soaked shirt and trying to hold him down. Pressure was best. Force the body to calm down and the brain will follow.

"Move, Nott. _Move_!" He kept repeating, quieter now. Hermione struggled to keep him still and clambered up onto the mattress in order to straddle him and put the full force of her weight into subduing his fit.

From her position she could see the pain in his face. The terror of thinking he was back in France fighting for his life and his country. She'd seen shell shock before, not just hours ago with the other man named Vince, but with her own friends. The ones who had made it home. The _lucky_ ones, she thought bitterly. Up close, she dared to disagree with the papers who so quickly dismissed the horrors these men had gone through. How were they lucky?

There was a moment of complete silence, apart from their labored breathing, jarring Hermione back to the present. She met Draco's eyes; they shined a beautiful silver in the moonlight. Her face hovered above his, her hands positioned on either side of his head, and her body pressed firmly against his.

She could feel every muscle in his abdomen as his chest rose and fell to meet hers. She could feel the heat of his hands gripping her hips as if she was anchoring him to this world, to reality, through the thin silk fabric of her slip. She could feel his breath on her face and wondered if his lips were as soft as they looked, or if they tasted like the rush of adrenaline she constantly felt when he looked at her… and, _oh_ , was he looking at her now.

"Get off of me," he instructed.

Hermione blinked. Perchance she had been imagining the gleam in his eyes. He was so very confusing, and besides, she couldn't afford to be involved with him in any romantic capacity anyway. She had a job to do. She had a mission, and kissing Draco Malfoy was _not_ part of that.

"Then let go of me," she retorted, arching a brow. His hands instantly dropped from her sides, taking their warmth with them and leaving her to shiver without the heat of his touch. Hermione scolded herself for getting so intimate with him in such a precarious setting.

"Why the hell are you here?" He demanded as she rolled off of him. He sat up in his bed, throwing aside the damp, tangled mess of sheets. She stood off to the side of the four-poster bed, crossing her arms over her chest and feeling suddenly very exposed as his eyes followed her every movement.

"You were screaming," she snapped back. "It was pretty hard to ignore." His expression remained blank, but his shoulders tensed, and Hermione couldn't help but let her eyes wander over his extremely attractive physique. "Woke me up," she lied effortlessly. "Interrupted my beauty sleep."

A smile broke out over his face, and his shoulders relaxed as he coughed through several laughs, attempting to hide them. "Like you need that anyway," he murmured. Her heart thudded loudly and traitorously in her chest. He arched at single platinum brow at her, "You don't seem too shook up."

"No," she admitted. "I've had experience with this sort of thing before."

"Brother?" He guessed. She shook her head. "Father?" No, she'd been lucky enough not to have to send her father off to war, unlike most others. Technically, she was supposed to be Penelope Clearwater at the moment, but luckily, she couldn't recall anything about her experience with shell shock anywhere in the file and thus took it upon herself to curate a history herself. "Then, who?" He pressed.

Hermione glanced at her bare feet, then back at him, reveling in the charming and carefree version of Draco Malfoy before her. "Ex," she lied. Noticing that she wasn't planning on elaborating any further, and somehow refraining from pushing for anymore, he simply nodded.

He shifted on the bed, then stood and gestured toward the half-open door. "Let me walk you back to your room." Hermione bit her lip but turned toward the door without another word. As it was, he hadn't been asking. It was one of the many things she imagined Draco Malfoy didn't do.

Ask permission. Check the price. Obey the law.

"I find you extraordinarily puzzling, you know." He told her, giving her a slight smirk as they turned into the corridor.

"Oh?" She challenged, hoping he would grant her an explanation. He did.

"Yes," Draco continued. "You were the image of prim and proper when Theo and I stopped by the side of the road to help you, but then you didn't hesitate to get your hands dirty and sink a blade into that pathetic weasel's ribcage." He paused to spare her another glance. This time, she pointedly kept her face forward, giving him nothing. "You didn't react at all when we brought you here, in fact you hardly said a word the whole evening, but the minute I had the gun pressed to your head you gave me that which I most desired."

Again, she didn't meet his eye.

"How peculiar," he noted, mostly to himself.

"You did say I was puzzling," she finally said.

He let out a low chuckle, "That I did, Penny, that I did. Courageous, but also cowardice. Brilliant, yet remarkably stupid."

Hermione recoiled at his commentary, unable to feign disinterest any longer. She spun to face him, stopping before her bedroom door, and practically shrieked, "Stupid?"

The hint of a smirk twitched at his mouth, taunting her. "I did have a gun to your head," he stated. "If I were you, I wouldn't have waited so long to prove myself useful." She opened her mouth to argue, but then closed it, resolving not to let him get the better of her again. Cunning, beautiful bastard. "Don't take it personally," he went on, now wearing a full look of smuggery.

"I find that hard to abide by," she remarked between gritted teeth.

He merely shrugged. "It wasn't meant to be offensive. I told you I find you extraordinary, albeit mostly in a perplexing manner, and your idiot bravery has quite a lot to do with that." He leaned in closer, adding in a whisper, "It can't be helped, I'm afraid. By either of us."

There it was.

The gleam in his eyes had returned, and the familiar gleam haunted her as much as it excited her. It drove her mad with fear and longing all at once. Hermione couldn't look away.

Suddenly, his arms were around her, holding her against him and tilting her chin up so that her next breath was lost in his. Hermione no longer had to wonder if his lips were as soft as they looked, now she _knew_. There were not gentle, either. Though, she supposed, Draco Malfoy wasn't the type of person to stand around and wait for something to fall into his lap. He was the type of person to take what he felt belonged to him – what he felt was _owed_ to him – and in that moment it happened to be her.

He shoved her back against the wall with little effort, knocking the wind out of her. His teeth tugged at her bottom lip mercilessly, then rolled it between them and sucking on it. She melted beneath his touch. Her hands buried themselves in his fine hair, tugging lightly at the longer strands that fell onto his forehead. In return, he yanked her own wild curls. Hard.

Her tongue flicked against his bottom lip, exploring, and he opened his mouth to welcome her willingly. Then, his hand snaked around her neck and applied _just_ enough pressure to make her gasp for air against his lips. His hips flushed against hers, keeping her firmly in place, pressed harshly against the wall.

Draco pulled away from her in one swift movement, muttered "Goodnight, Pen," and then aimed himself down the corridor and disappeared in a flash of silver. Hermione leaned against the wall, one hand resting on her rapidly rising chest, and tried to catch her breath.

"Goodnight, Draco," she murmured under her breath even though he had been long gone. Reluctantly and half-dazed she returned to her bed and buried herself under the covers, her body still reeling from the kiss. Everything under the sun plagued her, and she felt herself get lost in the labyrinth of her mind until the early hours of the morning. Of the many concerns she had going forward, however, only two truly troubled her.

Would Hermione somehow be able to save Draco's soul and guide him toward the light?

Or…

Would she fall from grace and end up beside him on his throne in the pits of hell?

* * *

 **A/N -** Hello and welcome! If you have me on FFN, then you will be familiar with this story already xx

The title comes from Taylor Swift and Kendrick Lamar's song _Bad Blood_ from the lines _still, all my life I got money and power / and you got to live with the bad blood now_


	2. The Rules are Different

**Chapter 2: The Rules are Different**

* * *

_24 December 1924_

_BELOVED BACHELOR MISSING: A REFLECTION OF HIS LIFE AND LEGACY_

_By Rita Skeeter_

_Among his many admirable traits, it should be specifically noted that Mr. Malfoy was distinguished war veteran, serving his country and his people honorably and gallantly in the World War. At the start of the war, he was simply a sergeant, but by the end of the war, he had risen all the way to major. This enormous leap in leadership was unsurprising to those who served alongside Mr. Malfoy. During his service, Mr. Malfoy was awarded first the Officer of the Order of the British Empire, then the Distinguished Conduct Medal, and finally the Victoria Cross._

_It was to receive the last award, the highest and most prestigious, that delivered Mr. Malfoy to Buckingham Palace on January 11, 1919 to which the public caught their first glimpse of Mr. Malfoy. After that first public appearance, the young man would go on to make many more over the course of the year and skyrocket in news and media coverage. It was his new role as leader of the family company and not only his determination, but also his deliverance to the success of several charities that held the public's adoration and attention._

_Young and ambitious, he made quite the impression on not only the King, but the rest of Britain as well._

Well… Ok, then.

I hardly want to belittle or even question his acts of service while defending the country and fighting in the horrendous World War, so I'm not even going to touch on that (the Victoria Cross, by the way, _is_ an extremely high award. It's given to those who displayed bravery, or some daring or pre-eminent act of valor or self-sacrifice, or extreme devotion to duty in the presence of the enemy). I'll let it slide, Rita, just this once.

Instead, I'll focus on the latter portion – You know, the part where she so casually mentions his philanthropic endeavors? Draco really did labor tirelessly over the needs of the children he regularly paid homage to and gave an unspeakable amount to charity with a beatific smile on his face knowing that every hard-earned pound he donated was going toward a good cause.

Kidding.

Obviously, Draco _did_ donate an obscene amount to various charities, however, he definitely did not do so from the bottom of his rainbow-filled, unicorn-loving heart.

What a fucking joke.

* * *

_31 July 1920_

Hermione had stopped asking where they were going any time that she was granted leave from the stuff manor. Firstly, because it was never fruitful and secondly, because it tipped Draco and Theo's moods toward the dangerous end of their violence spectrum.

For the past several months she had worked tirelessly to accumulate any information that may be valuable in proving their illegal pastimes. At first it had been difficult to gather little more than the names of members of their gang largely because after they realized that she was staying on, they spoke in codes or in hushed monosyllables around her. They didn't trust her. That was to be expected.

Draco Malfoy was the meticulous type; he personally overlooked every detail of any projects his evil empire took on as well as cross-referenced any illegal activities his Death Eater's partook in to coincide with his public appearances so that he – and often Theo – always had an alibi.

It was infuriating.

Hermione knew she needed to prove her value to them over and over again in order not to get her execution rescheduled, but mostly to be able to produce viable evidence for Shacklebolt and the case he was forming on Draco. She kept her head down, mouth shut, and did what was asked of her no matter where the command originated from.

Narcissa wanted her to fetch her gloves when they were arguably within her reach? Done – Hermione would get up from the other side of the room and hand them to her with a blank expression. Greg was shouting at her to for fuck's sake make herself useful and get chocolates and whiskey from the kitchen when Vince was having another episode? She did so without question – and from then on always kept a small bar and flask on her.

Today, it seemed that Hermione had been invited to attend a gala. Narcissa had practically thrown a gown in her direction with an added sneer of, "Based on your daily choice of wardrobe, I had a feeling that you were in need of a suitable dress. If my son insists that you are to accompany him to this event, then I will not have you embarrassing our family in front of the guests." She had nodded, not bothering to mutter her gratitude. Narcissa didn't want nor need it.

Under the chandelier and surrounded by fancily dressed people of importance, Hermione felt largely out of place. In the car on the ride over, Theo had eyed her expectantly, as if to say, _I'm surprised that you haven't tried to ask where we're taking you_. Even though Narcissa had promised it was for an important gala, Hermione felt that they could very well have dressed her up just to throw her into the Thames before they attended the gala finally having gotten rid of her.

Now, Theo dimpled at her and spoke in his most aristocratic voice, "Miss Clearwater, have you met Mr. Lockhart?" She shook her head, then held out her gloved hand for the blushing man to take and kiss. "Mr. Lockhart here is an esteemed author," Theo went on. "He's written several bestsellers. You must read them, Penny!"

She blinked, "An honour, Mr. Lockhart."

"Oh, please!" He cooed, smiling widely between her and Theo. "It's my pleasure! Mr. Nott here is of course very right, though, as he almost always is. I am in fact a very well-respected author. I don't mean to be narcissistic, of course, but one can hardly argue with the many awards in my sitting room and… Well…" He trailed off, happily shrugging his shoulders. Hermione internally wondered where Theo had found this lunatic.

As he wandered away, supposedly chasing after some woman who had been begging him all evening for an autograph, she turned to Theo with a polite smile to hide her aghast scoff. "What a character…" He returned her expression with a mildly knowing one. "Does he always grin so manically? It's positively ludicrous."

"He's won the _Daily Prophet's_ Most Charming Smile the past five years in a row." Theo supplied, leading her further into the crowd. He chuckled under his breath at her attempt to hide her shock. "Malfoy," he said as they came up to him. "Would you mind terribly if I left Miss Clearwater in your care for a few minutes? I have to go find Miss Parkinson and Miss Greengrass and make sure they haven't snuck off to defile the ladies' room."

Draco nodded curtly. "Of course, Nott. You know I can't say no to spending more time in Penny's effervescent presence." Hermione resisted the urge to sigh at their placated exchange of her custody. It had been like this every time she'd accompanied them on some errand or another. They took turns keeping her at their side and never letting her out of their sight. "Miss Clearwater," Draco said, placing his hand lightly on her shoulder blade, "This is Mr. Ludo Bagman, an old friend of my father's."

"Miss Clearwater," the other man greeted. "What a pleasure." Then, he turned to Draco with a sparkle in his eyes. "When would you like to settle that business that we discussed last week?"

"Now is as good a time as any, eh?"

Mr. Bagman's grin extended to the far corners of his plump face. "Right you are, Mr. Malfoy. Always keeping your wits about you."

Pansy, followed by Daphne, stumbled toward them with mischievous grins on their faces, and Hermione politely pretended not to notice the smear of lipstick on the latter's neck that perfectly matched the colour that the former was wearing.

Draco produced two coins from his pocket – Hermione was briefly shocked that he even carried loose change around – and handed one to the other man with a smug expression. "Your wife is fine with you wagering her new stallion?"

Mr. Bagman laughed, "But of course not! I don't suspect your mother is too fond of you volunteering the new family car?"

"Not in the slightest," Draco confirmed, his lips twitching upwards into the hint of a genuine smile. Hermione suspected that Narcissa didn't even know her son was currently betting her beloved new car. The one – she'd noticed – that Narcissa didn't let anyone else in the family organization use.

"Hold on a minute," Pansy said, narrowing her eyes at Draco. "You are not swapping the family car for a horse!"

"Of course, I'm not swapping it. That would be mad, Miss Parkinson." Draco replied, unblinking. He glanced over to Mr. Bagman, who looked positively giddy. "We're playing two-up."

"Well, let's get on with it then, shall we?"

The two of them nodded amicably and then tossed the coins in the air, letting them fall into their hands before flipping them onto their other wrist for the big reveal. They were both face up. Draco shook the other man's hand. "Ah, here you are, Mr. Bagman. As promised." He handed over a set of keys from his coat pocket and deposited them in the man's waiting hand.

"I knew it!" Pansy shrieked. "Draco, you absolute _fool_."

When Mr. Bagman turned to gush to a colleague of his, Hermione leaned over to whisper in Draco's ear. "Narcissa is going to be furious."

"On the contrary," Draco replied calmly. "I think she'll be extremely pleased."

"You just gambled away her favourite car!" Hermione pointed out.

He peered down at her, amusement dancing behind his grey eyes. His lips quirked into a devilish smirk. "No," he stated. "I just won her a racing horse." She blinked. He sighed and continued. "I promised Mr. Bagman that he could take the car for a spin if he lost."

"Oh," she said dumbly.

Draco then rested his hand at the small of her back and guided her toward the far side of the room where few people lingered, throwing a quick, "Excuse me, Mr. Bagman," over his shoulder.

Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her gown. It was an unpleasant enough task following behind Draco without the addition of small talk that had to be made to a few hundred guests. How many times was she expected to nod and smile and pretend to care what the other person thought of the venue when she could practically feel Draco vibrating with rage beside her.

"Where is he?" Draco growled between his teeth, smiling at the guests milling about in front of them, occasionally nodding or waving to a notable celebrity. "It's been nearly six months," he went on. "If you for any reason gave us false information, Penny, then so help me I will personally be the one to -"

"I didn't," she hissed. His eyes flashed dangerously dark at her for a brief moment before blinking back to their false, silvery sweetness for the benefit of any onlooker. She'd crossed a line by cutting him off and while she was currently relatively safe, she wouldn't be forever. Hermione swallowed, finding her throat dry.

He motioned over her head and a moment later Theo appeared at their side. "East wing. Now." Draco said, to which Theo arched a brow questioningly. Hermione had noticed over the past few months that Theo and Narcissa were the only people in among the Death Eater's to ever question Draco. "We need to talk."

Theo nodded, "Fine, but we only have about five minutes before you have to give your speech."

They led her out of the main gallery and into the East wing as promised, and Hermione fervently hoped that talk was all they planned on doing and that it wasn't code for some method of torture among their group.

"Where is he?" Draco spat the second the door shut and locked behind them. His voice was low, but it sounded off of the high ceilings and made her shudder. "We've had eyes and ears on that fucking school for nearly six months and we have yet to gather even a bloody fucking shred of evidence that he stepped foot on its campus. Explain that, Penny."

Her false name was venom on his lips. She shook her head, scared of what he might do to her now that her only proof of usefulness to him – and thus the reason she was still living and breathing much to Narcissa's constant displeasure – was rapidly losing value. "I – I don't know." She admitted. "He was a professor at the school before the war. He should be there."

"Well, he's not." Theo reminded her; eyes cold as ice.

Draco, already looming over her, stepped forward until she backed herself against a wall and then wrapped his fingers around her throat, applying a slight pressure to her windpipe. "Where is he?" She choked a bit. He shifted his grip so that his pressure points aligned with her arteries instead. "You know what I loathe, Penny? Threatening people. I find it tiresome. You know what I hate more? Having to explain my threats to people. So, why don't you spare us both the time and effort and fucking _talk._ "

She gulped, her hands instinctively rising to hook onto his arm. "I don't – I - " His grip wasn't altogether too tight, he knew better than to leave marks, but after a minute or so Hermione started to feel a bit woozy. She wasn't sure how much longer she could fight him. "Wait," She gasped. He didn't loosen his hold on her, merely lifting a blonde brow expectantly. "He has a son. His son goes to the school as well."

Draco let her go in a single motion, and her hand immediately lifted to her pulse. He looked at her, his grey eyes glazed over. "The son's name?"

"Neville," she rasped, coughing to try and clear her dry throat. "Neville Longbottom." He inclined his head toward Theo and gave a wordless nod. Following the silent instruction, Theo immediately left the room. Hermione's eyes flickered to Draco's waistband and pockets. She knew they had all been searched upon entry to the venue, but she still didn't trust that he wasn't currently carrying a weapon on his person.

After all, this was _his_ event. If anyone were to smuggle weaponry into the Museum of Natural History, it would be him. Luckily, he didn't produce any. Draco gestured toward the door, holding it open for her, and beckoned her to return to the main gallery. She blinked a few times, "You're not coming?" She noted.

His lips twitched upwards into a smirk. "I have to give a speech, remember? Need a few minutes to review my notecards." She nodded dumbly as he shut the door in her face, then stumbled back toward the hundreds of cheerful guests and quickly found herself a tall glass of champagne. As she moved on to her second glass – having not been allowed to drink in Draco's presence – there was a high-pitch ringing as Draco stepped up to the microphone.

As much as Hermione hated to admit it, his speech was enrapturing and mercifully succinct. He made anecdotes that resulted in unanimous laughter from the audience as well as captivating praises for those who donated to what he considered to be a noble and necessary cause. He ended by thanking everyone for attending his family's Twentieth Annual Charity Fundraiser for Children in Need.

He stepped off the podium and slowly made his way toward her, shaking numerous hands along the way and flashing his winning smile. At her side, he took her elbow firmly in his hand and led her away. He didn't bother to look at her when he said, "We're leaving."

Hermione, frustrated and feeling slightly braver from the intoxication, tried to yank her arm free of his grip to no avail. "Where did Theo go? Wait – What about the other women we came with…? Where are we _going_?" She protested.

Draco didn't meet her eye, "You ask too - "

"Too many questions. I know," she sighed. When he did spare her a curious look, she pursed her lips defiantly as best as she could. "Or so Theo keeps reminding me." When he shifted to guide her into the backseat of the waiting car, she hesitated and stumbled backwards into his chest.

He helped her into the backseat not unkindly, shut the door and instructed the driver to take them back to Malfoy Manor, then rounded on her with furious eyes. "You're drunk," he noted.

"Am not," she retorted. "I am perfectly capable of handling my liquor and do not need your condescending maleness telling me otherwise." While she would have liked to imagine that her grimace was intimidating enough to make him leave her alone, she guessed it was probably coming off as more of a pout.

Amazingly, Draco did not react violently or menacingly. Instead, he coughed into his handkerchief for several minutes. At first, Hermione thought perhaps he was ill or slowly losing his mind and about to have another episode of shell shock. But then she realized that his shoulders were shaking, and his face was flushed because he was laughing.

"Are you…?" She trailed off, finding herself at a loss for words.

He finally calmed himself enough to meet her eye and she was relieved to see them light and silvery. "Did you really accost me with 'condescending maleness'?" She pursed her lips, finding it wiser not to respond, lest this was all a ruse and the blank-eyed, monster was on deck to appear. He shook his head at her, then lit a cigarette and murmured, "Oh, Penny, how extraordinarily puzzling you are."

Hermione, unhelpfully, could think of nothing but his lips the remainder of the long ride.

* * *

A few weeks later, Hermione found herself accompanying Theo and Draco on another errand. It wasn't until the door opened to reveal a young, gangly man that it occurred to her where they were. Then, Theo's fist shot out and broke the man's nose.

His hands shot up as he stumbled backwards and were instantly covered in blood. Theo stepped over the threshold and pushed their way into the large estate. "What the hell? Who – Malfoy?" The man sputtered, blood spraying out of his mouth as it trailed down his face and dripped from his chin to the floor. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Neville Longbottom," Theo spat, cackling a bit.

"Who the hell are you?" His large eyes flickered nervously between the three of them. "Why are you here? What do you want?"

A portly woman rounded the corner and immediately screamed at the scene before her. Draco looked at her with a tired expression and exhaled loudly, ignoring Longbottom. "Fetch us some tea and biscuits."

The woman trembled, tentatively reaching out to caress Longbottom's face, but he flinched away from her touch. "Get out of here, Gran." The elder woman turned and ran as fast as she could up the stairs, disappearing from the crowded foyer. "Leave her alone," he said to them.

Theo looked expectantly at Draco, awaiting an order, but Draco waved him away. "Don't you have a maid, Longbottom? You seem well-off," he commented, letting his eyes briefly wander to the spacious ceilings of the estate, lingering on a white bust of a famous scholar. "Surely, you were raised to have some form of manners. Offer your guests tea and biscuits, eh?"

"I would do as he asks," Theo commented, shoving past Mr. Longbottom and turning briskly into the front sitting room as if he was the wealthy young man who owned the place.

Neville Longbottom grimaced at Draco, then looked pleadingly at Hermione. She didn't have to glance beside her to know that Draco was watching her, studying her response. She met Longbottom's dark, anxious eyes and nodded once, slowly. He grunted, his hand rising to pinch the bridge of his broken nose and moved to stand aside, gesturing for the two of them to follow Theo into the room.

Minutes later, a young maiden showed up with a tray of tea and an impressive array of biscuits. She dutifully curtsied to the men before scurrying out of the room and leaving them to their business. Of which, Hermione hadn't the slightest idea.

"Mr. Longbottom," Draco began, his voice taking a kind tone that sent chills down Hermione's spine. It was remarkable – and terrifying – how effortlessly he and Theo were able to shift between their benevolent and malevolent personalities. "Miss Clearwater here tells me that your father is a brilliant chemist."

"Was," Longbottom corrected. "Why do you care?"

"Was?" Hermione repeated despite knowing she was not allowed to say a word. From the look Theo shot her, she sank lower in her seat, sipping at her tea.

"We're concerned you see. We haven't seen him return to Oxford since the end of the war. Miss Clearwater here was a star pupil of your father and has confessed her concerns of his wellbeing to us on several occasions. As you can understand, I thought it pertinent to stop by and see how he was doing." Draco told him.

"You were a student of my father's?" Longbottom directed toward her.

Hermione noticed the clenching of Draco's jaw, the tightening of his knuckles around his cigarette, and the tension building in his shoulders as he corrected his posture. She slid her gaze over to Theo, finding him infinitesimally easier to read. He gave her a nod, or what she perceived to be a nod. It wasn't quite clear. However, from the lack of words from any of the men before her, she opted to answer Mr. Longbottom's question.

"Yes," she told him primly. "I wasn't his star-student, per se, but I did thoroughly enjoy his lectures. He is a gifted professor."

"Was," Longbottom corrected again. She blinked a few times, finding it impossible to probe further without seeming inconsiderate. "I presume you knew that he was drafted?" He asked her. She nodded, and Theo and Draco instantly tensed up at the mention of the war. "Well, let's just say when he returned, he didn't have the same capacity he used to have. Teaching was no longer an option for him."

"I'm terribly sorry to hear that," she admitted, finding it not difficult to empathize. She _was_ a former student of Frank Longbottom and did feel sorry that he would no longer be able to practice or teach what he loved most, chemistry. Though, a small part of her felt guilty that he was no longer capable of higher thought because of how relieved she was that he would likely not recognize her as Hermione Granger.

"Is he here?" Theo pressed.

Mr. Longbottom stuttered, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "As I mentioned before, he's really not well - "

"We'd like to see him." Draco interrupted. Neville Longbottom, awkward and frightened, tried to think of an excuse that would make them go away and leave him and his family alone. Hermione wanted to tell him there was no excuse under the sun that could sway Draco Malfoy away from his prey once he'd caught the scent of their tracks. "Now."

"Fine," Longbottom grumbled. "This way."

He led them to the basement of the estate, and Draco nodded to Theo to wait at the top of the stairs for them to return. He removed his cap and held it firmly in his fists, ready at a moment's notice for trouble. Hermione descended into the darkness after Mr. Longbottom and blinked back tears as the lights suddenly flashed brightly around them, illuminating the space.

What she had expected was a dank, dark and dirty basement with a single metal bed pushed into the corner and a man crying in the corner from the horrors he'd witnessed in France. Instead, she saw a renovated space that was half-lab, half-hospital containment room. She walked past the vials and powders to peer through the large glass window. The man inside the room, thin and starved, was chained to a hospital-like bed and muttering nonsense. His eyes were wild and rabid, like that of a deranged rabies-infested dog.

"I warned you," Longbottom murmured, coming to stand beside her. His eyes sank at the sight of his father and Hermione felt a pit in her stomach turn. "I would have preferred your last memory of him be of him as your teacher, probably giving some obscure and lengthy explanation about resonance and stereochemistry, with some added joke about the horrors of dyslexia and chirality."

He wasn't wrong. Professor Frank Longbottom could go on and on for the entire fifty-minute lecture about the importance of stereochemistry or how instable certain compounds would be without resonance. He also _did_ make the very same anecdote about Thalidomide: there were two mirror forms of the compound; one (the "R" form) was therapeutically active and prescribed to pregnant women to help curve morning sickness; the other (the "S" form) was not only ineffective, but caused horrific birth defects. It wasn't until years later, and with the specific research Frank Longbottom oversaw, that it was realized that the two forms of such a drug existed and that the wrong form had been prescribed to many women.

It was that brilliant paper that had jarred Hermione's memory when faced with Draco's barrel to her head. She had, of course, already read it prior to taking Longbottom's chemistry course.

"Well," Draco said, eying Hermione with a blank expression and hooded eyes. "It's quite clear to me that you may have been misled in believing that Frank Longbottom was the curator and distributor of that particular… pharmaceutical."

"It appears I was," she sighed.

The man before them seemed incapable of holding his bladder, much less formulating extremely high-grade opium in the quantities that London was seeing.

She turned to leave, but something on the lab counter caught her eye. "Is this where your father worked?" She asked, looking over her shoulder at the younger Mr. Longbottom. He nodded, then moved to stand in front of her, casually leaning on the black surface. It was then that Hermione noticed the faint pools of sweat on palm of his hands.

Hermione reached out with a gasp and took his hand in hers – it was cold despite the heat of the insulated basement in the height of summer – turning it over and running her forefingers along the inside of his palm. He yanked his hand away from her, but not before she was able to feel to moisture collecting on his skin. She narrowed her eyes at his, noting that they weren't actually dark as she had previously thought. His pupils were dilated so much so that his – blue she would have guessed standing this close to him – irises were entirely obscured.

"You," she breathed. His eyes darted frantically between her and Draco, who had moved to stand beside her, one hand resting on the revolved in his waistband. " _You're_ the one whose been brewing the opium." She studied the lab layout once more. "Yes, I'm sure of it. Not only do you clearly display signs of handling morphine on a regular basis without proper lab safety, but you also are left-handed."

"Penny," Draco snapped. "What the fuck does him fucking around with morphine have anything to do with opium? Didn't you say his father was the chemistry mastermind behind everything?"

"The primary source of morphine is isolation from the opium poppy," Hermione informed him. "Which should be of interest to you considering that morphine can also be used to make several other drugs once isolated, including heroin." He blinked, and she could practically see the wheels turning at an alarming pace behind his grey eyes.

"Come with me, Mr. Longbottom." Draco finally said, gesturing for them to leave the basement. "We have some matters to discuss." Once they had returned to the front sitting room. Theo joined them as Draco whispered something in his ear. Then, he turned to Neville Longbottom again. "Give me the names of everyone you sell the drugs to."

"Why?" Longbottom protested, finding some inkling of courage. "Why should I tell you anything? You're just going to steal all of my inventory and then how will I afford to live? It's not like I have a stellar resume to fall back on. I was hardly the scholar my father was. I'd rather you just kill me instead."

"I'm not here to kill you." Draco replied.

Mr. Longbottom scoffed and Hermione herself felt her head turn disbelievingly in Draco's direction. Theo's expression remained smug and alert.

"I'm not here to kill you," he repeated. "I'm here to _employ_ you."

There was a long moment of silence, finally broken by Longbottom squawking, "What?" unintelligibly. Hermione felt her own eyes bulge. In what instance had Draco – or the rest of his gang for that matter – not chosen the path of violence and opposition? It was incredibly unlike him and she didn't trust it. Luckily, Longbottom had the sense not to, either. "Why the fuck should I trust you?"

"Because," Draco sighed. "I'm the leader of the bloody Death Eater's, and I came here to make a deal. It's a matter of business, Longbottom. Your concern with turning over your clientele is loss of profit? Nothing more personal?"

"No…" Longbottom drawled.

"So, you don't care what happens to the men you sell it to so long as you make your money, correct?" Draco pressed, raising his eyebrows expressively. After a moment of consideration, Longbottom shook his head. "Good." Draco declared. "Then, here's what I propose: You give me the names of every man, woman, or child you sell the opium to. Then, you no longer sell them so much as a bloody speck of the stuff, understood?" – "Wait – Why would I -?" – "Any product you make goes directly to me. In return for your business, I will pay you handsomely. Twice the amount you're currently making. Three times, in fact," he added sniffing as he sneered at the oriental rug beneath his leather shoes.

"Why do you want it? What could you possibly do with that much Aunti?"

Draco inhaled a deep drag of his cigarette, then deposited it into the ash tray. "That's none of your concern. Do we have a deal?"

"I - " Longbottom stuttered, eying Theo's long fingers twirling a revolver. "Do I have much of a choice?"

Draco stood and held out his hand for Neville Longbottom to shake, "Glad you came to your senses." The man shook his hand, though from the ashen look on his face, Hermione could tell he felt sick as if he had just sold his soul to the devil for two shillings. In a way, she suspected, he had. "Pleasure doing business with you," Draco said as a way of a farewell, folding the list of names into one of his inner coat pockets minutes later.

On their way out, Hermione had to stop herself, finding one of her thoughts from earlier still nagging at her. She arched a brow at Longbottom, "How _did_ you figure out how to manufacture opium? It's not exactly a simple titration, and I don't recall your father ever mentioning your aptitude for chemistry during his lectures."

He shrugged, "I dug through his journals after doing some research on the most lucrative drugs in the black markets, and somehow taught myself the technique. He must have been a brilliant professor; his notes were so detailed. It still took a few months to really master the formula but…" He trailed off and shrugged again, averting his gaze. Then, his head snapped up. "How did you know I was left-handed?"

She gave him a shy smile, "I used to work closely with your father on a few of his pet projects. I became extremely familiar with his preferred layout of lab equipment. If even one beaker was not facing 'the right way' then he would snap a meterstick over my knuckles repeatedly." He looked at her astonished, but she could see his mouth was starting to form further inquiries. So, she added, "He was right-handed. It was clear the last person to touch any of the equipment in that lab had to be someone else, someone less meticulous and… left-handed."

"Huh," Theo muttered to himself once the three of them had settled back into the car. He exchanged a sidelong glance with Draco, who responded with, "Puzzling," but then kept the remainder of his thoughts to himself.

Hermione smiled to herself.

* * *

Draco stormed into the dining room – which was casually set as everyone was enjoying a lazy Sunday breakfast – and slammed his fist on the mahogany table. "Family meeting. Ten minutes." Hermione sighed. She'd really wanted to finish her toast and jam in peace that morning, but with no such luck it appears.

Graham looked up from the newspaper, "What about Pansy and Daphne?"

"Them too," Draco instructed. "They're still on summer holiday for another week, so they still have to attend before they go back to school." He turned and left the room as quickly as he came in.

Even though Draco had graciously given them ten minutes (it only took about ninety-seconds to cross the corridor into the main sitting room they held these meetings in) everyone sitting around Hermione moved in a flurry and fled the room, toasts and teacups in hand. Dobby and Winky quickly moved in to clear the tables and prep the kitchens for anything their employers would want or need.

Hermione, being not officially a Death Eater or even close to one, was not invited to these sorts of things. Instead, while everyone of importance in the house scurried in one direction, she went in the other. The quaint office she ducked into was easily recognizable among the hundreds of other rooms in this massive manor in that its furniture, flooring, and even walls were made of a fine, black wood.

She double-checked to make sure no one was following her. They never were. This was her prime opportunity to check on her book and while she knew they held family meetings often, she also knew that they didn't hold them for very long. Hence time was of the essence.

The bookshelf behind the desk. Fifth row up, requiring a step-up from the desk chair. Twelfth book over from the left. Old, worn brown spine with half of the title etched off. Hermione plucked it from the shelf and tore through the pages until she reached page three-hundred and ninety-four and the neat piece of parchment she stuffed in it fell out.

She'd been deep undercover for the better part of a year now and it had occurred to her only a few months into the job that there was no way she could realistically store all of the information she gathered by simply committing it to memory. As it was, memory was a fickle and deceitful thing. Better to store information in the form of writing. Hermione added a few key words and phrases she either learned or thought required some research, then placed the parchment back in the book and returned the book to its original place.

Had it occurred to her that this was insane? Yes. She was a logical enough person to work out that if this particular artefact was ever found that it would implicate her as a spy and a traitor to Draco Malfoy and his entire evil organization. However… she was also a logical enough person to use her less-dominant hand to write the notes in, keep careful track of where it was in case there was any sign of it having been moved, _and_ most importantly she kept it hidden in a room not easily accessible from her bedroom (and she definitely didn't keep it _in_ her bedroom).

It was as good as it was going to get for the time being.

Hermione was making her way back to the dining room, intent on bullying Dobby into procuring some fruit for her to snack on before the rest of them finished their meeting and assigned her another meaningless or tedious task. But then, of course, she heard the identifiable shrill of Pansy coming from a room to her right along with other hushed voices.

She peeked through the keyhole and, when she didn't see anyone, slipped into the room. It was peculiar. She could have sworn she'd just heard – Oh wait. Yes. There it was again. Hermione moved further into the room, ostentatiously decorated with green furniture, and pressed her ear to the wall. The muffled voices were much clearer. Then, her eye caught something even more inviting: a peep hole. She noted the colour difference in the wallpaper around it and presumed there had previously been a painting hung over it. How convenient.

"Blaise," Draco was saying, his cigarette hanging precariously between his lips. "You still have connections with the coppers who run the harbour?"

Blaise nodded. "I keep tabs on them, yeah, but I don't particularly like to spend too much time with them." He pulled a flask from his pinstripe coat and poured some of its contents into his teacup. He took a swig before letting out a sigh of content. "You need something?"

"Yeah," Draco replied. "There should be a shipment of car parts arriving in the next fortnight. I need you to acquire it."

Blaise sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees and knotting his fingers together. "When you say acquire it you mean…?"

Without missing a beat, Draco said, "Steal it."

The other man nodded, "Right, of course. That's what I thought." He leaned back and stretched an arm over the velvet sofa so that it rested languorously behind Daphne's head. "I'll need the description of the shipment. Any markings, that sort of thing. The usual. Whatever you can give me."

Draco seemed to consider this, mulling it over in his head. Hermione could see from her position how calculating his grey eyes were; they were focused and intense. "Done." He said. Then, he shifted and stepped around the fireplace to address Daphne and Pansy, the latter leaning uninterestedly against the armchair closest to the fire. "You two," he pointed. "Don't get in trouble."

Daphne sighed, "Well, that's hardly fair. It's not our fault."

To which Pansy chimed in, "Yes, Draco. Everyone is out to get us. We're _doubly_ prejudiced up there."

One of the elder boys – Marcus, Hermione recognized – scoffed. "The Scots were never known for their civility, Pans." He exchanged a series of acknowledgements with Greg and Vince.

Draco ignored his commentary, "You want to move back here?" He suggested, his tone icy and threatening. Pansy shook her head, and Daphne did the same when he glanced over to her. "Then, tell those Scottish whores to _fuck off_ and mind their own bloody business, eh? You're officially a Death Eater now. Both of you."

They both nodded dumbly, and Theo took the opportunity to speak up. "As for the other point, remind them who you are, who you know, and what will happen to their families if they try to slander you." He shrugged. "You don't see anyone here giving either of you any trouble, right?"

Narcissa rolled her eyes, "That's because every woman in London is bright enough to know that men aren't shit." She lit a cigarette and puffed out a few rings of smoke in Daphne's direction. "I say do it in front of them next time. I'm sure they could stand to learn a trick or two from you both."

At that, Daphne and Pansy both gave genuine smiles. Draco, realizing that part of the agenda had been thoroughly and successfully dealt with, cleared his throat to move on to the next subject. Hermione secretly wished that she'd discovered this room earlier so she could include a few of the titbits they were saying in her notes for Shacklebolt.

"A few months ago, I told all of you about a little opium problem the city was having," – Graham coughed, "Little?" – "and I asked all of you to keep an eye out for it on the streets. I said that if you did happen upon some, to take it and interrogate whomever had it." They all nodded. He went on, "Well, I'd like to inform you that problem has been dealt with."

From Marcus, "Dealt with how, exactly?"

Hermione lifted her brows, stifling a gasp in case they were able to hear it, and waited to see if Draco was going to do anything about one of his gang members speaking out of turn. As it was, he hadn't so much as sneered in Graham's direction at his comment, so perhaps he was in a good mood today.

"Firstly, we found the maker. The school I had you and your boys sitting on for months?" He directed at Marcus, who nodded. "He _was_ a professor there, but his mind got so fucked up from the war that he wasn't able to return. That's why I had you locate the son instead."

Draco glanced askance to Theo, who took the indication to continue the retelling. "From there, we interrogated the son," – a scoff from Narcissa followed by her draining her teacup, which Hermione suspected had similar consistency to that of Blaise's – "Turns out, _he_ was the one fucking making and selling the opium to everyone in the city."

"So?" Pansy asked, arching a single dark brow as her lips pouted. "Why does it matter to us?"

"Because," Draco said. "We're going to fucking buy it off him. All of it."

Narcissa's head snapped up, her eyes narrowed, but she didn't say anything. Instead, Blaise spoke up. "Whoa," he said. "Hold on a second. You asked me to run those bloody numbers, but you didn't mention we were going to turn around and sell it again!"

This time, Narcissa did speak up. "You promised me you would have nothing to do with that, Draco."

He held up his hands, bringing their tension and banter back down to an obedient silence. Hermione hated to admit how impressed she was with his overall presence and leadership skills.

"We're not selling it _here_." He assured them. "I'm going to tip our coppers off as to who currently has it in the city so that they can be the ones to be seen collecting it and reprimanding those who were in possession. Any product made going forward will be directed into our custody and then resold in America." He inhaled a long drag of his cigarette, then pressed it firmly into an ashtray as the silence in the room continued. "Any questions?"

Definitely in a good mood, Hermione thought. He was being especially forthcoming.

There were some of the usual inquiries that followed, like what Blaise's numbers were and if they accounted for currency exchange, transport, paying off both sets of customs, etc. Then, the conversation took another turn without so much as a mention as to Hermione's role in the discovery of Neville Longbottom and his high-grade, extremely lucrative drugs. Not that she cared. Not that she needed their acknowledgement or approval.

Dobby entered the room to refill the tea – and Blaise's flask per request – and as soon as he left the room, Theo cleared his throat. "There's something else."

"What?" Vince and Greg said in unison. Hermione noticed this was something the two of them did quite often and had once asked if they happened to time it but based on their response, she had to presume that they weren't even aware that they were doing it.

"Narcissa's new horse," Theo said, and she beamed. "We're entering him in a race, and we're fixing it, so he wins."

"That's it?" Marcus asked. "Well, let us know when the race is. I could stand to make a few extra shillings on our new stud." Next to him, Graham nodded along.

Theo sighed, brushing a hand through his dark hair. A few loose strands fell back onto his forehead, but he ignored it and poured himself a drink, foregoing the illusion of the teacup for a crystal glass. "No, that's not it. Draco?"

Draco inhaled sharply. "We're going to fix a race… in Notting Hill Park."

"Notting Hill?" Blaise immediately shouted, rising to his feet and practically slamming his teacup down on the table next to him. "Are you fucking mad, Draco?"

"Not mad," he replied calmly. "Simply methodical."

"Like bloody hell you are," Narcissa snapped. "That's Igor Karkaroff's racetrack. You can't go fixing races in his territory without him knowing." She warned him with an appropriately admonishing glare. Hermione observed that nearly everyone, excluding Theo, had generally the same heightened, angry reaction to Draco's announcement.

"I know." Draco told her.

"So, you got permission, then?" Narcissa pressed.

"No." He replied. "I did not."

There was an immediate uproar among the group. Blaise and Narcissa led the argument advising Draco, and subsequently Theo, against this idea. Pansy and Daphne gossiped nervously in the corner about what would happen if they returned to school and Draco had rightfully pissed off Karkaroff. Graham and Marcus seemed mostly concerned with _their_ own wellbeing as they figured out that since they were Draco's top footmen, they would likely be the ones tasked with the dirty work involved in whatever he was plotting. Then, Greg and Vince seemed to be mostly chatting idly about something else entirely, blissfully ignorant.

"We're going to fix the race." Draco explained carefully to his recently quieted room of Death Eater's. "We're going to fix the race as Notting Hill Park to catch Igor Karkaroff's attention." He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and began pacing up and down the room, eying everyone as he did so. "You want to know why?"

His voice was dangerously low, every syllable drawn out. No one asked questions. No one spoke up. "We're at war with the Order. Igor Karkaroff is _also_ at war with the Order. They're attacking his bookies and taking his money, and because there are too bloody many of them, his men can't control them. He's losing money. Loads of it. He needs help."

Blaise raised his chin, and Draco nodded for him to express his concern. "How are we going to help him? There's too many bloody Order members for us, too."

Narcissa's cool glaze slid over Blaise to Draco and Theo. She glanced back and forth between them, her eyes narrowed, and Hermione knew the interworking's of her brain were similar to those of her son. Always calculating. Always re-evaluating.

"We have connections." Draco answered. "We know how they operate. Karkaroff has the muscle, and we'll convince him that he needs us in order to be successful in ridding himself of his Order problem." He leaned against the hearth casually, and then nodded to Theo across the room.

Theo, then, provided another crucial piece of information. "We'll prep the horse to race in Notting Hill Park, fix a couple of races for it to win, and then ensure that it loses when the bets are high enough to draw Karkaroff's attention. From there, we'll meet him at Kempton Park where the Order hits him the hardest."

There were a few minutes of silence, then Narcissa stood, drained her glass and stared her son in the eye. "So," she began. "Am I to believe that you picked a fight with Potter and the Weasleys on purpose?"

"No," Theo scoffed, also finishing his glass. "I just wanted to kick Potter's arse and Draco gave me three free occasions to do so." He smiled, beaming from ear to ear as he slid a cigarette out of the pack. "That was the first."

"Pity that you only have two left." Narcissa remarked, not sounding apologetic at all.

Draco, however, sighed and took slight pity on his mother for whatever reason and said, "We're always fighting with the Order, Mother, and if the occasional fist fight in the streets happens to feed the fire a tad bit more then so be it." He waved his hand to dismiss the rest of the room, and as they hurried to leave, he added, "Trust me."

"I do trust you." She replied. "It's Karkaroff and the bloody Order that I don't trust."

Hermione scampered back away from the wall and rushed out the door, flying down the corridor in order to busy herself somewhere that wasn't clearly in earshot or in view of their family meeting. She repeated what she'd discovered over and over in her head and wished that she'd had more time so that she could have written it down before Pansy and Daphne turned around the corner, giggling about something or another and effectively blocking her access to the Room Noir.

* * *

Later that night, Hermione had gone to draw the curtains closed in her bedroom – having been up late reading – when she caught a flash of silver reflecting off the moonlight in the garden. It was Draco, and he was leaning in closely to Theo. It was clear from the way Theo traipsed off back towards the house that the conversation had been in confidence but hadn't necessarily been bad news. She had learned to read between the lines when it came to the two of them, and judging from the lack of vices, everything seemed to be alright.

Quickly, she threw on a light trench coat, slipped on some shoes, and padded down the stairs. It took a few minutes for her to find her way toward the French doors that opened out to Narcissa's main gardens, and she explained to the man standing guard at the exit that Draco was expecting her.

He let her out without any further questions, but she could feel his cold eyes boring down on her as she slid past his stocky figure and walked briskly through the lawn. The guard probably didn't think it worth his time to check her intentions seeing as either Mr. Malfoy really was expecting her, and he would be in trouble for holding her back, or Mr. Malfoy was not expecting her and would swiftly deal with her himself.

Hermione sidled up next to Draco, careful to make enough noise prior to coming close to him that he would not be startled by her presence and thus aim a weapon in her direction. Hear something suspicious? Shoot first, ask questions later. That was the Death Eater way, or perhaps it was the way of London gangs in general, she mused thinking of the Order of the Phoenix.

She dug through her coat pocket for the pack of cigarettes she kept in there and proffered him one, which he took without so much as a grateful nod. Entitled bastard, she thought. "Need a light?" This time, he did nod, and then turned to face her, lowering the bud in between his lips to her match. She lit his first and then her own. Blowing out a puff of smoke, Hermione said, "I have some thoughts."

Draco inhaled a long drag, "A clever woman like you? I would hope so."

There was a moment of silence, during which the cicadas took up a terrible song. "Did you know most of your… family members don't read the newspaper?" She let out a small, nervous chuckle. Barely more than a shaky breath. "Those who do read it don't even flip past the front page."

"What's your point, Penny?" He said, his tone testy.

She peered up at him, observing the rigidness of his bare forearm as he raised his hand to remove the cigarette from between his lips. His oxford had been rolled up past his elbow and his top two bottons were also undone, and she could just make out his clavicle peeking out from beneath the rich fabric. His attire was surprisingly casual, and it occurred to her at that moment that other than that first night when she barged into his room, she had never seen him dressed in less than a tailored three-piece suit.

"Well, as it so happens, I do read the entirety of the paper." She said primly. He swivelled his hips towards her, away from the garden and the view of the bushes of gardenias below. "The foreign section has been particularly interesting lately." She tried to keep her tone light and friendly despite the nervous chill running up her spine.

"Penny," he warned. "I also read the whole bloody newspaper unlike Graham and Blaise, so if you could just get to the fucking point?"

She swallowed, willing herself not to get off track or be intimidated by his icy glare. "Then, you know exactly what I'm referring to." Hermione told him. "Their stockpiles and personal reserves are running low. They're practically dry from what I can tell. It's been over seven months since the amendment went into effect, I mean, it's to be expected - "

"Yes, yes." Draco interrupted with an impatient sigh. "They're dry, they're miserable, and they're - "

"Desperate." Hermione cut in, eager to prove herself valuable to him. Luckily, her gamble of interrupting him in what was about to be him leaning toward a bad mood had paid off. She could see the wheels turning behind his eyes, and they immediately lightened from a dark grey. The storm was passing.

"And I'm supposed to believe that you – What – Give a fuck about them and their lack of intoxication? Or, that you have a sudden interest in how Malfoy Company Limited runs its business?" Draco said not unkindly, but she had prepared for this.

"Not at all," Hermione replied with a gentle shrug. "At least, in regard to the latter, not singularly." He arched a brow at her, reminding her to get to her point. "I'm making myself useful. This time, I took your advice and decided to do so _before_ you aimed a gun at my head."

At that, the hint of a smirk pulled at the corners of his downturned lips. Her own mouth hiding a playful smirk at finally having done something correctly in his eyes. It was beguiling how desperately she found herself wanting his approval the longer she spent in his company. He was cruel and unusual man, but god damn he was also a charming one. A born leader.

"What exactly are you proposing?" Draco inquired.

She mulled it over, then sighed. "Well, surely you know someone who owns or operates a distillery? If not, then I'm sure you can find a way to… _convince_ someone to take up the hobby. After that, it's just a matter of marketing, transportation… and half of that can be combined with your new pharmaceutical investment. Same shipment, same destination. That should save you some time and money." She paused to glance up at him. His eyes were following her intently and his expression openly curious. "Blaise can run the numbers, and I can verify that the distillery is efficient." When he tilted his head to the side, she shrugged and added, "It's simple chemistry."

He finished his cigarette, but instead of stomping it into the ground he crushed it on the underside of his shoes and then slipped it into his trouser pocket. "You done with that?" She nodded and he did the same to hers. Her brows furrowed, and he lifted his shoulders marginally. "Narcissa cares very deeply about her gardens."

Hermione trilled, "You mean she'll cut your balls off if you so much as litter in her garden." The smirk that had been teasing his lips finally shone through. "I'm surprised she hasn't dealt with me herself, yet. She clearly despises my lasting presence in the manor."

"That she does," he agreed. "In fact, tonight would have been your last night in the manor if you hadn't brought up the American prohibition." Then he spared her a mean, little smile. "Now, it's not."

"What? Just like that?" She asked incredulously.

He nodded, brushing his thumb across his lower lip. "As long as you are under my protection, no one in the family can touch you. As long as I say you're fine, then you're fine." The intensity of his gaze subsided as he leaned away from her and shocked her with another miniscule smile. "Cheer up, Pen. You leave to see another day in Malfoy Manor."

Detecting his good mood, Hermione opted to test just how benevolent he was feeling. She rolled her eyes pointedly at him, then swivelled her hips in his direction and teetered back and forth on the balls of her feet. "I'm delighted," she leered. "It's really such an honour not to be murdered."

"You can thank your literacy skills for that," he stated. Hermione mentally corrected him and attributed her sense of self-preservation, and the fear that if she didn't earn his trust then Shacklebolt would never receive her intel or have a compelling case against him.

Draco shifted during her internal reverie about moving up in rank in the force by saying, "These cicadas are irritating as fuck. Why don't we head back to the bloody house? Before I decide to test Narcissa's patience and set the fucking bugs, along with her entire garden, on fire." Per usual, it was not actually a request.

Hermione trailed quietly beside him and shuddered at the unexpected presence of his hand on her back as he helped her through the door and into the manor. He walked her to her bedroom door again, and Hermione wondered if this particular side of him – the gentlemanlike manners and aristocratic air of propriety – was genuine or a matter of his own creation to uphold his pristine image in society.

When they arrived at her door, she turned the knob slowly and glanced over her shoulder at him. For a moment she wondered if he would try to kiss her again; he hadn't since the last time and it had been months since then now, though there had also been very few circumstances in which the opportunity would have arisen. This would be one of them. (The fourth opportunity in twice as many months if one was counting. Which she wasn't. Obviously.)

"Goodnight," she murmured, testing the tension that hung in the air between them. His eyes sparked a brilliant silver, and when he ducked his head, she nearly closed her eyes and gave into him. But then he merely tucked a loose curl behind her ear.

"Goodnight, Penny."

Hermione got herself ready for bed, tucked herself under the duvet, and willed her mind to cease its endless spinning and overthinking and grant her a merciful night of uninterrupted sleep. No such luck. Not for the first time – and certainly not for the last, either – she tossed and turned and kicked off the heavy covers in frustration. Usually, her mind plagued her with worries about the mission. How was she supposed to get information to Shacklebolt? Was she supposed to hoard it until the end of the assignment? When would the end of the assignment even be? Next month? Next year? _When?_

That evening – or early morning – was different. Hermione's mind could not for the life of her stop picturing Draco's lips. It would not stop taunting her with how soft, how rough, how utterly divine they were. Then, her thoughts devolved into ones regarding her mental health and if it was somehow compromised from spending so much time surrounded by demons.

Feeling parched, Hermione wandered downstairs and rummaged through the kitchen for a glass of water and some dark chocolate to help her sleep. On her way back to her room, she heard screams pierce the air. The glass dropped and shattered at her feet. She swore loudly and padded across it without stepping on the shards as best as she could.

It was Draco again.

He hadn't had another episode in a while, perhaps even a month. She missed them sometimes, when she was so deeply asleep that not even the house collapsing around her would wake her. Other times, she would make it halfway to his room and then hear the shouts subside. It was only rarely that she was able to actually make it to him and help rouse him from his nightmarish memories.

Hermione straddled him and pressed her hands onto his chest, trying to keep him from thrashing around too wildly and injuring either him or herself in the process. After a few minutes of shushing and applying muscle-numbing pressure, he bolted upright as he regained consciousness. Hermione toppled off of his torso and onto the far side of his bed.

Draco was breathing heavily, inhaling and exhaling rapidly. His eyes were bloodshot and completely dilated. "What the fuck are you doing here?" He spat at her.

She grimaced, and dusted off her night slip, pulling it down around her knees. "You were screaming again," she retorted tartly.

"So?" He said. "I don't bloody need you running in here every damn time you feel like playing hero, Penny. For fuck's sake," He swept a hand through his damp hair, and then sighed and collapsed back onto his pillows. His eyes focused on the drapes above his bed before settling back on her with mild curiosity. "What the fuck happened to your feet?"

Hermione's eyes flickered down to her bare feet; there were several minor cuts that were now bleeding, and she even caught the glimpse of a few shards of glass that had managed to get under her skin. She scowled, "It's nothing."

She moved to step off of the precariously tall bed, but a hand wrapped around her wrist and yanked her back. Hermione's head spun around to see Draco looking at her with his eyes much softer than they had been when he initially woke up. Even his jaw, previously clenched in lingering rage from his fit, had slacked noticeably.

"Wait," he muttered. She angled her torso toward him, prompting him to continue without speaking a word. "It's not nothing. Let me look at it."

A few minutes later, Draco had her sitting on his bathroom counter with her feet in the sink, soaked in red-tinted hydrogen peroxide and water. It stung, but it also felt extremely nice to have someone else care for her wounds. "Thank you," she whispered between winces as he plucked each individual glass shard from the soles of her feet.

He didn't say anything, concentrating immensely on the task at hand. Feeling extremely awkward in the relative silence and not knowing what else to say to fill the void, Hermione added, "Is there anything I can do to – I don't know – Err – I've heard psychotherapy can be alleviating and if you need someone to talk to I can - "

His head snapped up and Hermione choked on her gasp. "You're offering to help me?" He said, blinking at her as if she'd somehow grown an extra head or sprouted purple hair. Draco narrowed his eyes defensively, "Why?"

"I – You're clearly in pain." She pointed out, ironically twitching as he located yet another piece of glass between her toes. She yelped a little bit and had to bite down on her bottom lip in order to contain a string of obscenities.

Draco, finished with his task, dropped the instruments he'd been using and drained the sink. He wrapped a towel around her feet, patting them dry before letting her swing them over the edge. He hadn't said a word, but then abruptly stepped in front of her and gripped her thighs when she tensed to jump off the counter.

"I threatened to kill you earlier, in case you missed that. I specifically said I had planned to kill you up until you opened your pretty little mouth and made yourself fucking useful again." He scoffed and shook his head. His fingers dug into her thighs through the satin slip she wore, and Hermione was extremely aware of how close he was. How his hips had settled themselves between her knees. How his breath warmed the tip of her nose. "I don't understand why you would do something so selfless as volunteer to help me cope with my fucking time in France."

He was breathing laboriously, but her own chest was rising and falling with a similar rapidity. "Puzzling," was all she said to him.

Draco bit out a disbelieving laugh and it lit up his face. Then, his head dropped so that his forehead rested on the prominent bone of her clavicle. Hermione held her breath, unsure of what to do next. Deep down Hermione wanted to reach up and wind her fingers through his pale blond hair, hold his head to her chest, and whisper reassuring nonsense into his ear. She hated herself for wanting that.

In the end, she did none of those things since Draco lifted his head and backed away from her, taking his body heat with him and leaving her shivering in her stupid, ivory slip. "Come on," he beckoned, holding out a hand to help her down. He released her, much to her dismay and complete self-loathing, and then ushered her out of his bedroom. "I'll walk you back."

Not wanting to spend another minute dazed and confused by his proximity and lack of shirt, Hermione expressed how unnecessary that was – "No, that's ok – Really, I'm fine – You said so yourself that I'm a clever woman," – and how she had finally learned her way around the maze of the manor's many corridors by now. She didn't give him a chance to refute, to be the gentleman she knew he could be, and turned around the corner without another word.

This mission was going to be the death of her sanity, she was sure of it.

* * *

 **A/N -** This story, although complete on FFN, will be updated on AO3 every Monday at 11am EST/4pm GMT until completion. Then, its sequel, _The Art of Deception_ (a WIP on FFN) will take its time slot.

This chapter title is from Stormzy's song _Vossi Bop_ from the lines _the rules are kinda different when you're badding up the game / badding up the game bad it up again / had them up before have them up again_ xx


	3. Lip Gloss Kit

**Chapter 3: Lip Gloss Kit**

* * *

_24 December 1924_

_BELOVED BACHELOR MISSING: A REFLECTION OF HIS LIFE AND LEGACY_

_By Rita Skeeter_

_In the many instances in which the_ Daily Prophet _and myself had been privileged enough to sit with Mr. Malfoy for an interview, he was always adamant that his success at such a young age was to be highly attributed to those surrounding him. His moving words, in one of our earliest interviews, must be quoted: "Without my close friends and mother by my side, I wouldn't be where I am today. I would not be the man I am today. Their cleverness, loyalty, and confidence are irreplaceable."_

_As a wealthy and extraordinary young man, it is no surprise to the public that his closest friends are equally as ambitious and amiable as he is. His best mate, Mr. Theodore Nott Jr., was also a decorated war veteran and entrepreneur – owning nearly half of the pubs in London alone – and is often seen accompanying Mr. Malfoy to society's prominent events with an unremarkable brunette on his arm._

_On Mr. Malfoy's arm was either Miss Pansy Parkinson or Miss Daphne Greengrass – or both! – when they were not studying at a prestigious university in Scotland. There has been much speculation among which of the two women held Mr. Malfoy's interest and would be the next heiress to the Malfoy company and fortune. The public is eager to know, naturally, but would be pleased to see either one as his wife-to-be since they are both women of affluent families and extremely adored in society._

Hmm, notice something missing?

Me.

I suppose that I should be grateful that Rita didn't find me very interesting and didn't bother wasting her time trying to identify me, even with how often I accompanied Draco and Theo to various social events (more than how many Pansy or Daphne attended in case you were wondering). If she _had_ done her due diligence and bothered to investigate the 'unremarkable brunette' she probably would have blown my cover as Penelope Clearwater.

Still. I'm a bit miffed that she thought I was just some boring floozy there for Theo's entertainment. Which was definitely _not_ the case. In fact, I'm not even his type.

She spent quite a lot of time highlighting Pansy and Daphne's better qualities which is laughable because the so-called speculation she referred to was her very own commentary on the two women. Her commentary was slanderous at best, which is probably difficult to imagine given how sickly sweet she sounds in this particular article. Again, Rita either didn't bother to do her research or didn't care (I suspect the latter). The papers – and several horrific articles written by Rita – constantly pinned the two women against each other and took any outing they made as some clever cover-up for their hidden animosity at trying to win Draco's heart over one another.

Which was obviously a load of fucking rubbish.

I wasn't bothered by any of the articles since I had enough sense to know that Draco's primary interest when it came to women was only ever in me. Well, minus this one other woman who was interestingly enough not mentioned in this article. But she's not a problem anymore. Although, I do owe a lot to her since without her I probably wouldn't have realized how inevitable my ending up with Draco really was.

* * *

_17 March 1921_

Hermione took Theo's proffered hand as she stepped out of the car and lingered beside him as Draco strolled ahead of them toward the entrance to the Kempton Park racetrack. She started to walk behind him, keeping her hat low to avoid her face being photographed by the hoard of paparazzi outside. Theo kept a hand hovering over the middle of her spine and, unlike Draco, did not broadly smile or wave at the cameras or reporters. Instead, she saw him offer a tight smile – if one could even call it that – as he made his way toward the entrance.

Once inside, the three of them handed their coats and hats to the doorman and were ushered to a secluded booth in club level. Theo immediately gave Draco a militaristic nod and left them. Hermione turned to Draco, "Is it just the two of us, then? Did Theo only attend for the sake of the cameras?"

He spared her a glance and poured himself a double shot of whiskey. "Something like that," he said.

She thought back to how he'd mentioned Kempton Park was where the Order hit this Karkaroff person the hardest, and she wondered if Theo's disappearance had something to do with that particular fact. Feeling the need to do something with her nervous hands, Hermione dug out a cigarette and stuck it between her lips.

Before she could even find the box of matches in her clutch, however, Draco was slamming an empty glass on the table between them. He stood and buttoned his suit, then looked down at her; his eyes silver and playful. "Do you dance?" He asked her.

Hermione took the cigarette from her mouth slowly, placing it on the table and leaning back to cross her arms and raise her eyebrow pointedly at him. Whenever he appeared to be in high spirits, she knew he liked to be flirted with. Taunted. Teased.

"If I'm asked correctly," she toyed. As she had expected – and painstakingly hoped – he laughed.

Then, Draco bent forward a little bit, crooking one hand behind his back and holding out the other for her to take. "Miss Penelope Clearwater, will you dance with me?" A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, and she let one pull at hers as well. It was always a game of chess between them; he set the mood of the game, and she obediently returned it.

Wordlessly, she inclined her chin upwards and took his hand, letting him lead her out of the intimacy of their private booth and into the loud and lively main floor. It was perfectly packed; there was just enough people to create a fun atmosphere filled with music and laughing, but not too many to make it hot and unpleasantly overcrowded. It was exactly what she expected a VIP lounge at a popular racetrack to be like.

The first song they danced to was a charleston. The jazz filled her ears with beautiful sounds of trumpets and saxophones as they skipped around the dance floor with the many other couples. The next song, however, was much slower.

Draco's hand slid from her shoulder to the small of her back, pulling her closer to him. Even in her tallest heels, Hermione was shorter than him; her eyes were level with his mouth which proved to be quite the test in self-control, especially when his eyes were hooded, mysterious, and focused intently on her.

"You look lovely," he whispered in her ear.

Hermione pulled her bottom lip in between her teeth and tried to fight the heat rising to her cheeks. She took a moment to collect herself, to will the defiant and flirtatious version of herself to take hold of the wheel. "Well," she replied. "You did tell me to wear red."

"It suits you."

Hermione tipped her head back enough to be able to read his expression. When it seemed sincere enough, she let the hint of a smile display across her face. He, of course, looked as devilishly handsome as always. He three-piece suit tailored to perfection, and the charcoal color complimenting his complexion in a way that made it seem as if the color itself had been created for his likeness.

"You look nice, too." She told him. "I don't recall seeing you in this suit before. Did you buy it for the occasion?"

Draco chuckled, turning her expertly around the dance floor. He tipped her back, then brought her back up with such a careful and methodical maneuver that seemed so perfunctorily _him_. His ballroom dancing – like all of his other aristocratic skills – were flawless.

"I don't buy my suits, Penny," Draco said with a cheeky grin. "They're on the house, or the house burns down."

"Oh," she muttered dumbly.

"Tell me about yourself." He phrased it like a question, as if it was optional although Hermione knew very well that it wasn't. Her brows furrowed, confounded by his sudden want to get to know her. They'd been a part of each other's lives for over a year now and in all that time he had not once asked her anything even remotely personal. At her perplexed expression, he supplemented, "Your dreams, desires, fears, favorite authors…"

Hermione blinked.

Shacklebolt had thoroughly unprepared her for what her mission actually entailed. While his creation of Penelope Clearwater as Hermione's undercover identity had been expertly crafted to include very minute details of her work history, it had severely lacked any personal facts, requiring her to make them up as she went, trying to keep them as close to reality for her to remember accurately without being precise enough to identify her as Hermione Granger.

Last month Theo was having a lengthy discussion with Draco regarding their astrological compatibilities (which were apparently astronomical resulting in an incredibly dynamic friendship that were largely due to the implication that Theo – as an Aries – loves putting Draco's – as a Gemini - brilliant ideas into practice with the latter egging the former on to glory) and why it should be considered a weighty argument in why Draco shouldn't have had Karkaroff's messenger killed while Mercury was still retrograde.

It had eventually led to Theo prodding Hermione for her – or rather Penny's – birthday. She had told him primly that astrology was not a real science, in which Draco nodded by way of grunting and pouring himself a new drink. Eventually, she had given in and told him it was five days earlier than when it actually was, and he seemed immensely satisfied with the information.

He had sat back smugly and shook his head, chuckling through puffs of smoke. "This explains so much," he told them, wagging his finger in Hermione's direction. "You're a bloody fucking Virgo." The three of them were sitting by the fire with Draco and Hermione trying to get through more than five lines of their respective novels before Theo interrupted them again.

At that point, Hermione felt offended enough by his commentary to do some research on the proposed personality trait of her astrological sign as well as its compatibility and with that of Theo's (which was shockingly constructive and based in their mutual eagerness to serve others) and of Draco's (which was distressingly positive as well and suggested that they even had a lot in common including their high intelligence and dependence on collaboration).

It was why now, looking Draco in the eye as he twirled her about the dance floor, proved especially difficult for Hermione to muster her usual sense of practicality and develop a lie that he would believe. Instead, she decided to answer his questions truthfully, giving him a slight insight into the woman he'd been spending so much time with the past year or so.

"Those questions are hardly fair," she informed him tartly. "Though if I was forced to answer them right now…" She trailed off in the hopes that he would drop his inquiries. His fingers clenched against her lower back threateningly. No such luck. "Right… Well, then. The Nobel, to be trusted, inadequacy, and Brontë."

Draco laughed at her. His chest vibrated against hers and although his voice was light and teasing, she could see that the glint in his eyes was not. "I have to presume you would pursue the promotion of peace for your impractical dream."

She pursed her lips at him, but in another instant the flash of danger had dissipated, leaving him to be the picture of gold and glory. When he smiled down at her, full and bright, she didn't find it very difficult to return the sentiment. Soon enough they were both beaming idiotically at one another. It reminded her of the day they had met, before everything had turned wicked and treacherous.

"Which sister?" He pressed.

"Emily," she breathed in response, noting the subtle nod of approval he gave her. Then, by some act of stupidity, she felt obligated to get to know him better. Not for the sake of the mission, either, with questions that would enlighten her as to why he even needed his successful gang and their illegalities when he was otherwise wealthy and adored. But for herself. To get to know the man she was finding herself irreparably attracted to. "What about you?" Hermione asked him. "What are your dreams, desires, and fears?"

He checked his pocket watch – not for the first time since they took to the dance floor – and he gave her a twisted smirk. "We haven't enough time for me to even scratch the surface of any of those."

He began leading her away from the crowd and toward a side service door. Hermione panicked for a moment and tugged at the hand he still had intertwined with hers. "What about your favorite author?" She half-shouted over the blaring jazz. "Can't you at least tell me that?"

Draco didn't glance back at her as he muttered, "Tolstoy."

Hermione didn't need to see his face to know that his response had been genuine. The choice of author was telling enough. Spending so much time beside Draco and being constantly shown two sides of the same coin felt very much like war and peace to her.

* * *

"Nice dress," Theo commented as he stepped through the service door and into the lounge, carrying several heavy bags with him. He winked at Hermione, "You can wear that to my pub, Penny."

Draco growled, "Nott." Then he sighed. "How did it go?" The other boy nodded wordlessly, giving Draco a wink of his own along with a mischievous grin. He reached out to grab Theo by his chin and angle his face toward the yellowed lights. "You alright?" He asked gruffly, observing a minor cut across Theo's cheekbone.

"Eh," he replied, shrugging out of Draco's grasp and following him through the busy room. "Few cuts and bruises, but the boys are fine. On their way to get a drink as we speak."

"Good."

Theo and Draco barged into to one of the other private booths with Hermione trailing helplessly behind, unsure of what was about to happen but knowing the murderous glare on Draco's face well enough not to question him about it. Theo interrupted the accented chatter among the four men in the booth by dropping seven overfilled satchels on top of their table, spilling their liquor and shattering their bottles.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Snapped the oldest among them. His black hair was peppered with white streaks and his withered skin looks as if it had seen better days. The younger man beside him – looking so dissimilar that he could not have been of relation – grunted unintelligibly but said nothing. The two remaining men sitting on either side of them immediately stood upon Theo's grand entrance.

Theo took one of the satchels, ignoring the ongoing accusations and threats made by the elder man, and dumped out its contents. Hermione resisted gaping, but felt her eyes widen at the sheer amount of coin. She quickly did the math with how many bags there were and peered up at Draco; his eyes were narrowed but other than that he seemed quite relaxed. She took after his demeanor and willed herself not to hyperventilate.

The two men that had evidently been guarding the others – though rather poorly, she mused – pointed revolvers at the three of them standing in the doorway but neither Draco nor Theo produced their own weapons. Hermione felt her chest rising and falling rapidly but schooled her face into an apathetic expression.

"What the fuck is this?" The man roared.

"Your money, Mr. Karkaroff." Draco replied calmly. At the man's – Karkaroff's – sneer, he continued. "Rescued from the Order… and returned to you with a request for a fair hearing." He eyed his opponent closely as he reached into his pocket and procured a cigarette. He handed one to Hermione without asking her if she wanted one or even glimpsing in her direction.

"You have a lot of fucking nerve, Malfoy," Karkaroff spat. "Showing up here, after that fucking stunt you pulled in Notting Hill?" He grimaced at Theo and Draco. "Did you not get the fucking message I sent you?"

"Oh, we received your message." Draco acknowledged. He nodded to Theo who unwrapped a bloody ear and tossed it onto the pile of coins. Hermione swallowed bile that rose up her throat at the sight of the severed body part.

"What the _fuck_?"

"As you can see," Draco said. "I didn't particularly care for what he had to say, and well… when I told him to tell you as much let's just say he didn't want to listen. Instead of returning to you, interestingly enough, he said he would rather take his talents elsewhere."

"So, am I to believe that traitor works for you now?" Karkaroff seethed, knuckles flushing white against his furious reddened skin as he gripped his glass.

"No," Draco scoffed, lips twitching into a merciless smirk. "He's currently discovering how deep the Thames is." At the younger man's obvious confusion, he went on with an evil, little smile stretching across his lips. "Let me spell it out for you, Krum. Unlike your boss here, I don't hire men who can be so easily bought or who so readily give up information on their previous employers. I prefer loyalty."

"You are a fucking ferret!" Karkaroff yelled. He slammed his glass on the table, lips pulled back to bare his rotting teeth. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't have my men blow your fucking brains out right now!"

"You need me alive," Draco shrugged.

"Like hell I do!" Karkaroff screamed.

Hermione watched the two of them glare at one another, and between them the younger man – Krum – with the constantly confused and brooding expression suddenly caught her eye. Or rather, she caught his. He was staring at her intently, making her very uncomfortable. She quickly averted her gaze.

"Your own protection is failing, Mr. Karkaroff." Draco stated, nodding at the two men in the room aiming guns at him. "Your boys here are taking cuts from the Order." At Karkaroff's sidelong glare at both of them, they stiffened and lowered their weapons. "I want to suggest that you hire out your racetrack security to the Death Eaters, instead."

Draco exhaled a final puff of smoke and distinguished his cigarette butt on of the satchels. Hermione dropped hers – only half finished – onto the floor and rubbed her heel on top of it.

"Why should I do that? You bloody Death Eater's don't have half the numbers that the Order has. How am I to expect that your protection will be any better than my men now?" He frowned, twirling the glass in his tensed hand anxiously.

"For starters, like I mentioned before, my men cannot be as easily bought. They answer to me and only me." Draco supplied. "As for the Order… Let's just say that I have an ear to the London underground and know when and how they are going to strike at any betting shops or racetracks. It makes them predictable, and therefore vulnerable."

Karkaroff narrowed his eyes, his gaze flickering back and forth between Draco and Theo. His eyes were that of a wild animal by the time they settled on Draco's steady grey ones. "Why the fuck do you care who I employ to protect my money?"

Valid question, Hermione pondered, considering what the possibilities might be. The smug blond standing beside her gave a chortled cough. He didn't bother to answer the old man, instead sliding his hands in his pockets casually. "I want ten percent of the profit." He told Karkaroff plainly. "In addition to two legal betting pitches at every race for each of my men, _with_ the fixed numbers. If we are all satisfied with the services after one calendar year, then it will raise to three and so forth."

Krum turned expectantly to his boss, awaiting a decision along with everyone else except for Theo and Draco who exchanged a knowing glance and indiscernible nod. "Fine," Karkaroff grumbled. Then, Krum leaned in and whispered something in his ear. The elder man sighed and eyed Draco with great disdain. "My friend here has a request as well… a clause of sorts."

Draco nodded diplomatically, "Of course. I'd be happy to sit and discuss it with you both, if you wouldn't mind ushering your ex-guards out of the room?" In which it was evident by his tone that he didn't give a single fuck whether or not it bothered Karkaroff or Krum. The former nodded to the two butch men, waving them off with a final scowl of disapproval.

Theo took Hermione by her elbow, gesturing for her to leave the room as well. He followed behind her, angling himself directly toward the drinks table. She took a tall glass of champagne from him and let him clink his own glass against hers before tipping to his lips and draining the entire thing in one breath. He immediately reached for another.

A few moments later, Draco sauntered out of the booth and sidled up beside her, resting a hand on her lower back. Hermione sincerely hoped he didn't feel the sudden shiver that shot up her spine at his touch.

"Penny," Draco said to her, eying Theo over her shoulder in a way that almost looked sheepish if she didn't know him better. "We're going to go to Karkaroff's for dinner. All of us. I have some business to settle with him first and Theo has to go check on the rest of the boys, so you go on ahead with Krum."

Hermione finished her drink, wincing as the bubbles settled unevenly in her stomach, and looked at him. "Do you think I'm stupid?" She hissed at him under her breath. "I'm not a whore."

"Everyone's a whore," he replied, jaw clenched. "We just sell different parts of ourselves, that's all." He dragged his hand down his mouth and chin, then looked at her with an exasperated expression. "You wanted to work for me. You wanted me to give you more responsibility in the company, to trust you more. Well, this is your rite of passage. You want to be a Death Eater one day, Penny? You have to make sacrifices."

He turned and left her to go back to the booth, and a second later Krum walked out. Hermione inhaled a deep breath, imagining all of the lovely perks she would stand to gain from surviving her mission and giving Shacklebolt all he needed to rid London of every single bloody Death Eater, then painted a sweet smile on her rouge lips and took Krum's arm.

* * *

One hour.

That's all she had to avoid Krum's advances for, and in the grand scheme of things, that wasn't too terrible a task, was it? She could do this. Hermione Granger was a bright and brave woman. She was clever as the devil and twice as pretty. She could withstand an hour with a man who couldn't even pronounce her name correctly.

"Penne," the brute said as he led her into a spacious sitting room.

Hermione smiled through a grimace, and walked briskly through the room, wanting to put as much distance between herself and his hungry eyes as possible. She tried to talk to him whenever he got too close to her. There wasn't much for them to talk about, though, especially since his English was abhorrent.

Eventually, he turned on some music and started dancing with her. Hermione recoiled at his touch but couldn't figure out how to say no without making her rejections so obvious as to insult him and provoke him further. She was stuck.

He leaned down and Hermione immediately craned her head away from him. Then, much to her disgust and immense displeasure, he inhaled the scent of her hair and whispered in her ear, "So beautiful." When his tongue slipped out to curl around her earlobe, Hermione leapt back and scampered out of his arms.

That did it.

His eyes were blazing; his fists clenched at his sides and his breath huffed hot and heavy in her direction, like that of a bull, and her brain unhelpfully reminded her that she was wearing a crimson dress. It didn't take long for his more animalistic instincts to kick-in. He charged at her.

Hermione reached out for something, _anything_ , to defend herself with. She saw a silver vase in her peripheral vision and dove for it. His hands were on her before she even made it close, slamming her harshly back against a grand piano. The keys echoed horrifically through the room as he turned her on her stomach and pinned her down. One arm was pressed against her spine while the other reached for the hem of her satin dress, tearing it and fiddling with the stockings and clasps at the top of her thighs.

Panic settled into her veins, pumping adrenaline through her and sending shockwaves to all of her nerves. She could feel the rough padding of his thumb grazing her knickers like a thousand knives. Hermione couldn't extend her arms far enough to reach any item in the room, but she was able to slam her hands down on the cover of the piano keys, crushing the arm Krum had snaked across her stomach, pulling her toward him.

Once he yelped and let go of her, she swiftly turned and sent the tip of her heel flying toward his crotch. In less than an instant, he was down on the floor, cradling his groin and swearing in a language she didn't understand. Hermione kicked him again, and then spat on his face for extra measure. "Fuck you," she growled, clutching her purse and heading towards the door.

Draco stood in the doorway, pushing past the butler and halting the moment he took in the scene before him: a frazzled and furious Hermione standing over a crying and injured Krum. He blinked.

"I should've known," he said. She thought for a minute, based on the gleam in his eyes that he hadn't realized what a monster Krum really was when he set her up to go with him, but then he opened his stupid, entitled mouth again. "I wanted to make a bet with Theo that you would make it at least twenty minutes before needing rescuing, but I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you didn't need it at all." He let out a single laugh at Krum on the floor. "Theo wouldn't even take the bet, if that makes you feel better."

Hermione fumed. She wasn't even sure where to begin with that, so she snapped, "No. It _doesn't_ make me feel better," at him and then kept her mouth shut and eyes diverted the entire length of the drive back into the city.

"Penny," Draco tried once they arrived back at the manor.

"You are a fucking _bastard_ offering me up like that!" She screamed, rounding on him as they made their way through the dining room.

Dobby, who was the only one present in the room before they showed up, instantly desisted prepping the table for dinner and scurried into the kitchens. Draco's jaw clenched, and his eyes – dark and stormy – narrowed at her. Hermione didn't back down; she was too riled up from fighting Krum and too bottled up with all kinds of other emotions to have to stomach her anger at him right now.

"How dare you," she hissed. "How very fucking _dare_ you."

Biting back tears – of anger, frustration, hurt – Hermione let out an exasperated wail and focused her emotions on the primary matter at hand: the fair-haired devil with his shoulders tensed and eyes daggered down at her.

"What the fuck was that?" She screamed. "I knew you were vile and calculated, but seriously? Setting me up, offering me like some common whore, to that disgusting man as some kind of clause in your precious fucking agreement?"

Draco inhaled, opening his mouth to reply, but Hermione swiftly cut him off again.

"No, you know what? Perhaps I should have known better. You've nearly killed me yourself twice or so now, so why should it matter what another man does to me as long as I'm still breathing to come up with my _clever little ideas_ to further your company? Hm?" She paced back and forth in front of him, throwing her clutch on the floor.

"You weren't in any real danger," Draco started, rigid and tense and defensive.

"Like hell I wasn't!" Hermione laughed through a choking sound. "I was nearly – I would have been – Well, I'm untouched but with no thanks to you." She finally spat.

By then, not that either of them had noticed, but a small crowd had gathered to watch the interaction with peaked interest. There were small murmurs made by the onlookers as Theo supplied an adequate backstory which passed through them like wildfire.

He sighed, "He wasn't going to touch you. I was coming back for you."

Her eyebrows skyrocketed and she turned sharply to look at him, truly aghast. "Don't tell me how you were coming to save me. Don't start with that fucking bullshite, Draco. You wanted to place a _bet_ on how long I would last without your intended rescuing."

H nerves stung, strung out from all of the excitement; her lungs filled with the stifling air of the dining room and exhaled shakily as she let the adrenaline in her blood, fueled by rage, energize her argument.

Hermione jabbed her index finger at his sternum, intent on pushing him the way he always, always pushed her. She wanted him to scream, to cry, to _break_ the way she'd been trying not to do over the past year undercover. Not that he would ever know how doubly hard his lifestyle was for her. She didn't choose it, not really, and she definitely would not have stayed in it after she'd fought for her life if it wasn't for the fact that other people were counting on her.

Not that Shacklebolt or any of his other, precious Aurors had so much as given her an indecipherable nod from the other side of the street to let her know that she was still being looked out for, valued for her sacrifices, and singularly important to them and their mission above all else. No. He had stayed true to his absurd promise and had not contacted her at all in all the time she had been deep undercover.

There was a moment of collective silence as Hermione huffed out her indignation at Draco and twisted to leave him and the room for some much-needed solitude and reflection. But then he had to go and say something exceptionally stupid again.

"You're overreacting, Penny."

Hermione, still half-way turned, spun on the ball of her foot and mustered up as much momentum as she could. The sound of her palm against his cheek made a deafening sound, and Draco recoiled sharply from the slap. "Fuck you," she seethed.

His eyes blazed at her, finally giving her the level of emotion that she had been searching for in his face during their entire argument, and she pursed her lips defiantly at him. Did he dare strike her back? No. Draco raised his own hand to his cheek, a nasty red welt already forming, and said nothing else as he stormed out of the room. For the first time in what felt like hours, Hermione took a deep breath. Her muscles buzzed with energy, but her mind went numb from the laborious fight.

Theo was the first person to walk up to her after Draco's exit, and she closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose as a headache started to form at the nape of her neck. "Don't," she sniffed.

He handed her the clutch she'd pelted at the floor and gave her an apathetic shrug. "It's about fucking time, Penny."

At that, her eyes snapped open and peered up at his; they were their usual shade of icy blue but there was a key element of his disapproving gaze that was missing. It morphed his entire expression into one she didn't recognize and was too exhausted to riddle out.

"What?" She croaked, disbelieving that none of Draco's beloved followers and friends had yet to throw her in some medieval torture room for treating him the way she did.

Theo's shoulders lifted marginally, and she caught the traces of a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. Her gaze slid across his over his shoulder to where Narcissa stood. The woman stared intently at Hermione and raised her glass of wine to her lips. The look of contempt on her face was clear as day, but there was something else present as well. It took Hermione by complete shock when she finally placed what it was: pride.

It wasn't at all the reaction Hermione had expected to receive from either of them. From Narcissa especially. However, it was infinitely better to what she presumed would happen, with Narcissa aiming a gun at her head for raising a hand to her darling son.

* * *

Less than a week later, the Order retaliated.

Draco paced the length of the main sitting room, muttering to himself, "Where the fuck is Theo?"

In one of the velvet armchairs, Hermione was curled up with one of Austen's works. After the tumultuous week she had, she needed a bit of light-hearted romance to settle her temper. Being in Draco's presence had not been enjoyable after their argument to say the least; there had been a lot of averted gazes, stiff postures, and using Theo as a go-between for any commands and successive responses.

He checked his pocket watch for the tenth time in half as many minutes and finally stopped his incessant pacing in order to retrieve his newsboy cap and overcoat. He met her curious expression as he adjusted his cuffs. "Get your coat. Looks like you'll be coming with me since Theo doesn't seem to be perceptive to the concept of time today."

Hermione sighed and took an old crossword puzzle clipping – one of the many she completed in silence over breakfast, thoroughly avoiding speaking to any of the men – tucking it in to hold her page. Then, she stood and took her sweet time crossing the room and taking her best coat and hat from Winky, who looked scared as hell to be in the same room as them.

Half an hour later, Draco pulled into one of the private sections of the harbor and stopped the car. When he didn't order her to stay in the car, Hermione promptly followed him to where he met Blaise in one of the holding centers. He was leaning against a crate and smoking a cigarette with a carefree smile splayed across his handsome face. The lapels of his coat were pulled up in such an effortless sense of fashion that Hermione felt a flare of envy spike.

"Any problems?" Draco asked him, eying the shipment with mild scrutinization.

Blaise scoffed, rubbing his hands together before slipping the cigarette from where it hung precariously between his lips. "No," he replied. "There never is though, is there?"

Draco nodded, content with the response. "Make sure your coppers are taken care of, and offer them double to transport it to the warehouse for Theo's pub."

"Not the Manor?" Blaise frowned.

Draco shook his head, "No. Best that we keep this container far away from the watchful eye of the men who haven't been on our payroll long enough. I don't want any of them getting the brilliant idea to report it."

There was a startled neigh from outside of the building, causing all three of their heads to turn at the unusual sound. "Are you expecting anyone?" Blaise asked Draco. The latter took of his razer-embedded cap as way of answering and headed briskly towards the door. Blaise followed suit, also removing his cap as well as grabbing an iron bar lying on a nearby bench. He turned wordlessly and handed it to Hermione.

She swallowed.

When the three of them emerged from the building, there was a young boy huffing and puffing as he tried to settle the horse he rode. Draco immediately took to shushing the horse and whispering reassuring sentiments at the white stud.

He cocked a silver brow at the young boy, "Oi, what's the matter?"

Blaise relaxed his grip on his cap, and Hermione took the signal from him that this boy was one of their non-initiated members. "It's Theo, Mr. Malfoy." The boy supplied.

"Well, it's about bloody time." He waved a hand in Hermione's direction. "Either ride back and tell him to come pick her up straight away or take her back yourself." Draco instructed.

"No, it's not that. It's – Mr. Nott is in trouble!"

Draco's shoulders tensed. His head whipped around to stare at the dirty boy, "What the fuck do you mean Theo is in trouble?" He narrowed his eyes threateningly. "Be very clear and very concise."

"They – They cornered him," the boy stuttered. "He's outnumbered and – it's bad Mr. Malfoy."

" _Who?"_ Draco demanded, venom dripping.

The boy looked pained, glancing nervously between the two men. He finally said, "The Order," and that's when Blaise and Draco sprang into action.

Draco barked orders at the boy, instructing him to alert the other members, as many as he could gather, and lead them to The Cavalier – one of the bar's Theo owned and where the Order had supposedly jumped him – and then beckoned Hermione to get back in the car. Blaise hopped in behind her and the three of them tore through the city.

"Fuck," He swore, his hands gripping so tightly onto the steering wheel that Hermione was surprised it didn't break. "Fuck, _fuck!_ " He slammed his hand over and over again. "Fucking Theo," Draco howled. "I bet it was Potter. I bet Theo fucking provoked him, and here we are – here I am – saving his bloody arse for the millionth time."

Tires screeched as they pulled up to the pub, and Hermione could see through the slightly tinted windows that there was a full-on brawl going down inside. Draco pulled his cap over his slicked back hair and gave her a vaguely irritated look. "If I asked you to stay in the fucking car, do you think you could manage to do that this time?"

She opened her mouth to tell him that she would feel much safer not being left alone outside in case any more Order members showed up, but she didn't have to say anything. He gave her a once-over and then glanced at the darkened street before yanking her out of the car and hauling her into the bar with him and Blaise.

The door swung open and Draco's fist immediately connected with a tall bloke's nose, sending him stumbling backwards. His cap was in his hand by then, aimed at the lanky figure warningly. Blaise pushed forward and took the iron bar from Hermione's grasp; it connected with the man's forearm with a sickening crunch.

Draco opened a hidden door – a well-obscured private booth – and shoved her in the small room. "Fucking stay here," he snapped at her. "Alright? Just _stay in the fucking booth_. Don't do anything fucking stupid, Penny, I don't need to be worrying about you too."

Hermione wanted to protest that she could handle herself, thank you very much, and even if she was in trouble she certainly wasn't going to wait for _him_ after what happened last week, but before she could even open her mouth, Draco was shutting the door and joining the fight. She slid the latch shut, locking herself in. Then, she peered out of its peephole and gaped at the horror of the pub.

There were at least two Order members for every Death Eater – except for Potter who was fighting Theo on his own.

Hermione was thankful that any given time Theo went off on a tangent about how much he despised Harry Potter, she had prompted him to give her details on other Order members. Luckily, the Death Eater's – and thus Hermione – didn't actually run into the Order too often. However, that made it extremely difficult as she surveyed the room and tried to put faces to the names and descriptions Theo had provided her with over the past several months.

Graham had just thrown an older man across a bar table, shattering glass everywhere. At the same time Blaise, to his right, threw punch after punch after iron bar at a shorter, far more nervous man. She suspected the man wielding a newly broken bottle of whiskey at Graham to be a man known as Diggle, and the man looking ready to flee from the pub to be the infamous Fletcher. There was a third man that Graham and Blaise took turns cutting with their razors, and he hardly needed a second glance to identify him. There was a nasty, jagged scar covering what would be his left eye if he still had one. The portly old man – Mad Eye Moody – though was giving Graham and Blaise the best fight among their three Order members.

Marcus was kicking at one of the ginger twins, then breaking to elbow and cut at the other twin and the youngest Weasley brother. Ron his name was, Hermione recalled. Marcus seemed to have no trouble fighting him and was clearly putting most of his effort into fending off the twins. Their punches were no match for his newsboy cap and the wooden dagger he wielded, breaking off one of the legs of a nearby bar chair.

Vincent and Greg stood back to back, swinging punches and knives out toward their assailants. Among them were the remainder of the Weasley clan; the men at least, because Hermione didn't see the women – or _any_ women – anywhere in the pub fight. A massive man, towering over everyone easily like some kind of half-giant, roared and broke a wooden chair over Greg's head. Vincent screamed as his best mate crumpled to the ground and countered by sinking his knife into the oaf's leg, behind his knee. When he fell with a thunderous crash, Vince jumped on top of him and started screaming, "They're going to kill me, they're going to kill me…" while sinking his knife into the man over and over again.

Hermione's attention was immediately pulled away from Vince and Greg – who was slowly righting himself as the patriarchal Weasley approached him – as there was a loud crash from nearby her hiding spot. Potter had shoved Theo against the bar and shattered half of the bottles in the process. Theo reacted by lifting a shattered bottle and aiming it towards Potter, who landed a blow to Theo's forearm and caused him to drop the makeshift weapon. Then, Theo pushed at the disheveled, green-eyed boy and both of them went down over a table, breaking it in to and continuing to roll around throwing elbows and fists at one another on the dirty bar floor.

Among all the chaos, Hermione worried about her Death Eater's welfare because, against her better judgement, she had come to care for them in a strange way, or at least enough to value their wellbeing as opposed to that of the ruffians they were fighting against.

Per usual, her focus was drawn to Draco.

He was taking on two older members, one lean and lanky and cornering him in the far end of the pub. The other man he was fighting was worse for wear than his fellow Order friend; half of his teeth were black and crooked – as the daughter of two dentist's it was difficult for Hermione not to notice something like that even from her distance – and his greasy black hair stuck to his face. He wore an especially personal look of hatred as he came up on the other side of Draco, blocking him in.

There was a flash of silver as a daggered blade slid out from under his tattered sleeve. In an instant, he had Draco in a headlock and his knife against his throat.

" _No_ ," Hermione screamed. She undid the latch and bolted out from the safety of the hidden room. The bar had become a battlefield and was immensely difficult to navigate; Hermione struggled at avoiding punches, shattered glass and Order members reaching out a dirty hand to try and take hold of her. "Let him go," she huffed as she skidded to a halt at the two men – Lupin and Black, she recognized up close – that were threatening to kill Draco.

Hermione lifted her hand and leveled a revolver at Lupin's head.

By then the commotion of the bar slowly quieted down as the followers of both gangs realized their leaders had reached a stalemate.

Lupin chuckled, fixing her with a derisive smile. "Where did you find that, sweetheart?"

"One of your pathetic weasels," she noted. "Your men should be more careful where they leave their weapons." Hermione clicked the bullet into place and tilted her head to the side, "and I'm not your fucking sweetheart."

The man holding Draco, Sirius Black, laughed maniacally. "Oh, this one's got some balls, Remus. Or tits, I should say." He tightened his grip on Draco, producing a strangulated sound from him. "My dear cousin, you always had a taste for the better things in life… and she is _exquisite._ "

Draco shoved the heel of his shoe into Black's leg and then elbowed him backwards into the wall, knocking his head back and freeing himself from the man's grip. Lupin stepped forward to help his friend, but Hermione shifted into his path and sent a warning shot out to the side of his face, then cocked her brow at him as she clicked the next bullet into place.

Black went after Draco with his knife out, but Draco dropped to the floor and slid along the floor with his cap out kicked the other man's legs out from under him. When Black fell harshly to the floor, Draco clambered up on top of him, straddling him firmly into place. He bent the man's wrist until it snapped, then took hold of his knife and pressed it against his windpipe.

"Don't you dare fucking touch her," he hissed. "Don't even _look_ at her, you hear me? Your vendetta is with me, not her. It's for my mother's sake that I don't cut your throat right here, understand?" He backed off the other man and stepped back to Hermione's side.

She eyed his warily, trying to decipher the blank expression on his face, to no avail. He was unreadable and even his eyes betrayed nothing of what was going on in the inner workings of his mind.

"Give me the fucking gun, Penny." He said between gritted teeth. She reluctantly handed it over. He took it and pocketed it, then slid her a sidelong glance. "I thought I told you to stay in the fucking room." He shook his head. "You never bloody listen, do you?"

Hermione didn't have a chance to answer because Potter was wailing and causing a scene on the other side of the bar. The fight had been over the minute Draco had Sirius pinned and Hermione had a gun to the apparent leader of the Order's head. It took entirety of both gangs by surprise, and every head swiveled to see Harry Potter angrily flushed and being hauled away from the giant man by the youngest Weasley brother. Theo, slack-jawed and indifferent, watched silently as he made his way over to stand on Hermione's other side.

"You killed him!" Potter spat at a cowering Vince. Greg stood protectively in front of him. "I'll have your head for this, you Death Eater scum. I'll kill you! He was a good man. He was a _good man_!"

Hermione didn't want to point out that the boy screaming about murder and good men was incredibly hypocritical but no one else seemed eager to continue fighting over the dead man so she tore her gaze away from Potter's spluttering figure as his friend dragged him out of the pub.

Lupin narrowed his eyes at Draco. "You know we're going to have to have retribution for that." He tilted his head toward the fallen Order member – the remarkably only serious casualty of the fight – and said, "Hagrid _was_ a good man. Even I can't look the other way for this one."

Draco sighed, "I know."

He didn't look away as Marcus and Graham joined Greg in trying to calm Vincent and help him out of the pub. Eventually it was just Black and Sirius staring down the three of them. Hermione sighed inwardly wondering why it was always the three of them left dealing with the trouble.

"Let me be the one to handle it." Draco said. "Vince is a good man, too. He's been through a lot in the war. We all have." Black cackled under his breath, but Lupin nodded empathetically.

"Alright," conceded the other man. "But we need to be there. None of your usual tricks, Malfoy."

"Fine," Draco replied soberly.

* * *

A few weeks later, the entire gang, including Pansy and Daphne who were home for a school break, were gathered around The Cavalier. It had been newly renovated and reminded Hermione of the posh London speakeasy she had expected it to be and less like the dirty pub it used to be. Perhaps the fight with the Order had done the pub a service in the long run.

"Nott," Pansy said, lifting a glass of wine to her lips. "I _know_ you didn't decorate this all by yourself, who did you hire? Narcissa?"

Narcissa appeared behind the girl, scoffing. "Please, Pansy." She sparked a match and lit the cigarette hanging between her lips. After exhaling several rings of smoke, she added, "I haven't the time for that sort of thing anymore. Haven't since all the men went off to war."

Daphne nodded her agreement, refilling both her and Pansy's glass. "That's true," she nudged Blaise next to her conspiratorially. "I can tell you had a say in the drapery."

"I haven't the slightest idea what you mean, Daph," he winked, pressing a friendly kiss to her cheek, then leaning back to finish his whiskey. "Oi, Draco," Blaise called out, turning to face the smug blond inclined against the chrome bar counter. "The crate's been moved from the Cavalier's warehouse like you asked. The boys and I moved it this morning,"

Draco nodded his approval, "Cheers, Blaise." Then, he finished his glass and set it down, fishing out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and scowling when it was empty. "Fuck," he swore under his breath.

"Here," Hermione said, shifting from further down the bar. She left Marcus and Graham to argue amongst themselves and moved to stand beside him. She offered him a bud and a light.

"Penny," he greeted amicably. In return, her lips twisted into a small smile.

The two of them had been in a weird place lately. He had very clearly set her up as a sex worker for furtherment of his contract with Karkaroff and she still – rightfully – hadn't forgiven him for it. However, she had also saved his life in the bar fight and so… there they were. He didn't know where she stood with him, not that she really knew either.

Either way, they hadn't talked about what happened. Instead of the distance and cold shoulders she'd given him before, Hermione had taken to quietly resuming her role as his assistant with polite nods and small acts of kindness (like the one she was currently engaged in) and, in return, Draco had refrained from bluntly threatening her life or accusing her of being too soft.

"I don't mean to pry," she began, pulling her bottom teeth between her lips anxiously.

"By all means." Draco said, cutting her off. "Pry."

She swallowed, afraid of tipping their precariously stable relationship toward the wrong end. Still, she had to know. It had been in the back of her mind all evening and this was the first real opportunity she had to ask about it.

"Why are we celebrating?" Hermione questioned, glancing around the lively pub. "I thought today was a sad day and - "

"And it is," he stated, sparing her a frown. "In more ways than you know, but does that mean we can't celebrate the good ways as well?"

Hermione sighed. "I just don't understand."

Draco put out his cigarette in an ash tray, grabbed a bottle of Irish whiskey and crossed the room to where Theo sat next to Narcissa, laughing at something she was saying. Hermione sighed again. It felt like Draco was always running away from her these days; he was continuously out of reach and whenever she thought she'd gotten close enough to get a hold of him, he slipped through her fingers.

"Oi, Nott!" Draco beamed, coming up behind his friend and pouring copious amounts of dark liquid down his open mouth from behind him. "Atta boy!"

He procured several glasses and filled them with whiskey, then ushered everyone in their group around the table. Draco raised a glass, then nodded toward the others and motioned for everyone to take one. Hermione took hers with a tight-lipped smile forced across her face.

"I want to make a toast," Draco said clearing his throat. Silence. "To Mr. Theodore Nott," he began. "Thank you for being the best mate a bloke can ask for, and for owning half the pubs in London!"

Theo flushed furiously and someone, Daphne most likely, called out "The good half, at least!" There was a round of laughter from the close-knit group of friends, and even Narcissa appeared to be thoroughly enjoying herself.

"As most of you know, today - "

Theo stood and called out loudly over Draco's next words, "Hey, hey!" He slapped Draco on the back a couple times and shook his head at him, gripping his lapel between his fist and pulling him in to whisper something in his ear before pushing him away theatrically. "Bloody bastard!" Then, he raised his glass to the rest of his friends, "Today is not about me. Today is about Greg and Vince," he nodded to the two of them, a smirk pulling at his lips. "We'll miss you gentlemen. Cheers!"

"Cheers!" Everyone called out before draining their glasses and slamming them all loudly on the table.

"I finished first!" Graham called out triumphantly.

"Oi, like hell you did, Montague!" Blaise retorted.

Pansy rolled her eyes, "Will both of you shut the fuck up?" She pinched at Daphne's rosy cheeks affectionately. "Daph bested both of you. Per usual."

"What the fuck do you mean, _per usual_?" Blaise crowed half-mocking. "I want a rematch, Greengrass. You and me."

"Oi, I want in, too." Graham protested.

Blaise waved him away, claiming that he had no right to a rematch because he hadn't even finished his first glass when he put it down. Embarrassed, he turned away to consult with Marcus while Daphne and Blaise downed another full glass of whiskey in some attempt to prove who was better than the other.

Hermione sat quietly nearby but after the several shots Theo had sent her way throughout the night, claiming that he did for scientific purposes (to see what her drunk stages were supposedly), her bladder demanded immediate attention. She murmured her excuse and disappeared into the dark corridor at the back of the pub.

She stared at herself in the mirror for several long minutes, splashing cold water on her face to sober herself up. She was afraid of what she might say or do if she had to keep pretending Draco's presence hadn't affected her all evening. All she needed was a slight push, and then she knew she would be brave enough to see if his lips still tasted as delicious as she remembered.

"Draco, you fucking prat," Theo was saying. Hermione hurriedly put her ear to the door, listening intently to what the two of them were saying in the hallway. "I _told_ you not to say anything."

"It's your bloody birthday, Theo." He replied. "I know it's a hard day for you because of your mum, but that doesn't mean it shouldn't be celebrated. You deserve to be happy."

"So do you, you know," Theo responded suggestively.

"No," Draco disagreed. "I don't deserve it. I definitely don't deserve her, and she's made that quite clear."

Theo scoffed, "You're brilliant, Draco, but you're also a bloody fucking idiot." Then, his voice sobered up and took a more serious tone as he went on. "You sure you don't want me to go with you tonight?"

"No. I can go alone, and I don't want anyone else to have to be there. You all stay here and enjoy the party," there was the sound of Draco clapping Theo on his cheek. "Go back in there and get properly fucked, you hear me, Nott?"

Theo, a bit muffled by his retreating distance, called out, "Is that an order, Major?"

"Yes, it is," Draco responded, letting a laugh escape his lips. Hermione stayed behind the door, careful not to let her heavy breathing reveal her eavesdropping. "Come on, Vince," Draco said as new, heavier footsteps padded down the hallway. "Let's go out the back way, shall we? There's no need to make a scene."

"Yes, Draco." Vincent replied dispassionately.

Hermione's brows furrowed, and when there was a deafening thud of a closing door, she slid out from the toilettes and exited out the back door. Draco and Vincent walked past the row of family cars and horses and they continued walking down the dark London streets. She followed from a safe distance with her eyes peeled for any sign of danger around every corner.

They walked all the way to the harbor and Hermione's feet ached from walking so far on cobblestone in her heels. She ducked behind a crate of barrels and watched as Draco and Vincent came up to the river's edge.

"You might as well come out and join us, Penny," Draco said loudly, his back to her. Hermione huffed and did as he instructed, nodding sheepishly to Vincent and avoiding Draco's hooded eyes as he adjusted his cap and looked down at her.

"You're not going to punish me?" She asked tentatively and in a hushed voice so that Vincent wouldn't hear her.

Draco's lips twitched upwards into a teasing smirk, "Maybe… if you ask nicely."

She bit back a cough and quickly busied herself with straightening her dress in order to obscure her flushed cheeks at his crude comment.

"Gentlemen," came a low voice. The three of them turned to face Lupin and Black. The night was dark and foggy, but the cruel grin on Black's face was unmistakable.

Draco pulled Vincent aside, whispering to him where the other men couldn't make out their conversation. "Listen," he said. "You killed a member of the Order. If I let them do this, Vince, they would cut off your manhood, strap you up by your ankles and let you drain. Then they would let the rats have you and by the time I found you, there would be nothing for your mother to bury. That's how those fucking bastards do things."

Vincent took off his cap and clutched it to his chest. He nodded solemnly.

"To save you from their barbarity," Draco went on. "I told them I'd relieve you myself. They're here to witness."

Vincent bit his lip, "I died over there anyway, Draco." He shuffled his feet like that of a disciplined toddler and it broke Hermione's heart to see him in so much pain. "I left my fucking brains in the mud," he sniffled. "In the trenches."

Draco sighed, then backed away and spoke up a bit more so that Lupin and Black could hear him. "You have any last requests, mate?"

"Yeah," Vincent nodded sheepishly. "Look out for my mum, will you? Make sure she stays safe and happy… and make sure no one else's mum has to go through what she is about to go through. Especially yours," he added. "Narcissa practically raised us, all of us, when our mums shut down after our father's died. She's twice the man of any of us."

Draco looked at him blankly, only nodding along.

Then, Vincent stepped up to the edge of the river and eyed a boat coming towards them. "Is that for me?" – "We have to get your body out of the city," he replied. – " _Don't_." Vincent strained, his eyes flashing at Draco. "Don't bury me anywhere that there's mud. Let me mum know where I am, yeah? She'll want to visit on my birthday, I know she will."

"You're a good man, Vince." Draco finally said.

"It was a pleasure serving you," the man replied between sniffles. He put his cap back on and faced the river, the boat coming into position.

Hermione watched in horror as Draco lifted a gun to the back of Vincent's head and readied it for fire. He murmured something Hermione couldn't quite make out, and then a loud bang rang through the eerie and quiet night.

Her hands rose to cover her mouth and to stifle her scream. Vincent's body fell onto the sacks of coal and the boat made its way down the river, manned by one of the potential Death Eater's that Marcus was always hanging around with. Draco wiped the blood spatter off of his face with his pocket handkerchief and then tossed it into the Thames.

Beside her, Black had come up to whisper in her ear, "Terrible thing for a lady to witness," he said. His eyes slid up and down her figure with palpable want. "Though, perhaps you aren't a lady. I imagine one mustn't be to get along with Draco. He can be a bit rough around the edges despite his godly demeaner." Hermione shivered from his proximity and tried to back away from his touch. "I can be rough to," he taunted with wagging brows.

She gasped as a hand slid around to grip her elbow. Draco shifted to stand between her and his estranged cousin. "What the fuck did I tell you, Black?"

The man laughed maniacally at Draco's veiled threat and retreated to Lupin's side, all the while never taking his dark eyes off of Hermione.

Draco led her away from them quickly, messing around with the wiring of a car on the side of the nearest street until its engine purred to life, and then he ushered her inside and drove away from the river as fast as he could. Hermione tried to control her ragged breathing.

"You just – You _killed_ Vincent!"

He didn't look at her, instead focusing on the dark road ahead. She could tell from the direction they were going that he was taking her back to the manor and not to the pub where everyone else was likely still downing whiskey and wine like it was just another Tuesday.

"What the hell?" She snapped. "You just killed your friend – You just shot him – and no one else even _blinked_ when you volunteered to do so. What the fuck is wrong with you?" Hermione shouted over the roar of the wind, her curls whipping furiously around her face.

Draco gripped the steering wheel, "I didn't kill him."

"Draco, I'm not _blind_." She retorted, intent on pushing him until he told her something useful. "Don't lie to me. Why did you do it?"

He shot her a mean glare, "I didn't kill him, Penny. Fuck. I shot him, yes, but with a shell full of sheep rags. It'll knock him out for a bit and it'll hurt like hell when he wakes up, but it won't kill him." She blinked at him, bewildered. "Every one of our people were in on it, except for Vincent."

"Why – Why didn't you tell him?" She asked quietly, searching his face for signs of a lie. There was none.

"He had to believe it was real," Draco replied. "Otherwise, he would have given it away and then Lupin would have happily started a bloody and unrelenting war that we would not have won. The Order may not have the skill, the money, or the finesse that we have, but they do have the fucking numbers."

"Well…" Hermione paused. "He can't come back to London. If the Order sees him or even gets _word_ \- "

"He won't be coming back to London." He stated, turning into the manor. He helped her out of the car and then directed her into a small sitting room, pulling at one of the bookshelves until it slid halfway across the floor. There was a false door behind it and a vault behind that.

"Where the hell is he going then? He's a Death Eater, he can't just – I mean – Aren't you all supposed to be _family_?" She wailed helplessly. Her eyes wandered over to the vault as Draco opened it, revealing a small arsenal of weapons stashed inside.

"Vincent is going to New York," Draco answered. "Greg is heading there next week anyway to help run that side of the business. He has a cousin who owns a couple bars and is willing to be our go-between man for selling liquor to the dry Americans. Vince will act as his muscle and see that he doesn't go and get himself murdered or tortured by their coppers when he starts dealing the opium, too."

Hermione stood flabbergasted and speechless. It was way more information than she expected him to divulge, but it was utterly brilliant. He had thought of everything, it seemed. His hands carefully selected a sharp, needle-like blade from the assortment of weapons, then he reemerged to stand in front of her.

His jaw was set, and his eyes were dark and stormy. Except, for once, Hermione didn't fear the danger they posed. "What's this?" She asked as he placed the knife in her open palm.

"Protection," he supplied tersely.

She frowned up at him, "From who?"

"Keep this on your person at all times," he told her, ignoring her question altogether.

Hermione slid him a teasing look, hoping to lighten his ominous expression and tone. "What?" She pressed with a hint of a smirk. "No razor cap of my own?" He let out an exasperated sigh. "Fine. Then why can't I get one of the other weapons? A revolver, maybe."

"No," Draco stated. "You need something deadly but easily concealable."

"Why?"

"Penny," he sighed. She pressed her lips firmly into a thin line and put the blade in her purse emphatically. She arched a brow for him to go on, and to her surprise, he did. "I realize that your constant presence at my side is becoming more noticeable to those of whom we pose a threat to, and your very existence is enough to tempt some of them into tempting my patience."

Hermione frowned, "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that they finally identified a weak spot of mine and plan to exploit it for either their benefit or a grotesque form of entertainment. Either way, I'm not willing to risk finding out which it is."

"So, you're willing to let me hold a weapon, now? I'm not one of your precious Death Eater's," she tested.

"I don't give a _fuck_ about that." Draco barked. "All I care about is your safety, Penny."

She didn't ask why, but the hitch in her breath said enough for her.

"Draco," Hermione said, fixing him with a sullen glare. "What's going on? Who do I need to protect myself from exactly?"

He let out a shaky breath, "From Sirius Black." When she opened her mouth to demand an explanation, he shook his head at her, and she closed it obediently. "I saw the way he was looking at you at the harbor. I know that look of his. He's a dog and he won't stop until he gets what he wants, and by the way he was sizing you up, it's you he wants next." By then, Draco was visibly shaking with rage. "I won't let you suffer the consequences of my actions – my family's actions." He promised her.

She reached out to place her hand over his, trying to reassure him that it was fine. That she was fine. To bring him back to the moment and back to her. It worked because his eyes shifted from a dangerous slate grey to that of an iridescent silver.

"If he so much as talks to you again," he whispered. "He's a dead man walking. I don't care what my mother has to say about it."

Draco's hand pulled out of her grasp and for a second Hermione felt the sting of rejection pierce her despite his speech. But then he placed it on the bottom of her chin, tilting her head up toward his. His palm snaked around to cup her cheek, and his fingers buried themselves in her hair.

Her heart was pounding thunderously in her chest, threatening to burst out of her ribcage if he pulled away from her as he had so often these days. She missed the way he felt pressed up against her and she hated herself for it, but that didn't make it any easier. When he had asked her about her desires, she wanted to say him. As much as she tried to deny it, to push it down a dark endless rabbit hole and never let it resurface, her body yearned for him. _Desired_ him.

"Draco," she murmured.

He responded by pulling her into him and relinquishing any space between them. His lips were hot and rough, tugging at hers with an intensity that could only have been bottled up from her interaction with Black until it boiled over. She let him press her against the storage cabinet even though a handle was jabbing into her back and sending shot of pain up her spine.

"Pen," he choked against her lips.

The electric shock the feeling of his skin on hers was exactly as she remembered it. Exactly as she reminisced it when she dreamt at night. There was a lot of talk about drugs and alcohol and cigarettes and how addictive they were, but no one ever talked about the heat of want and the plague of longing.

And Hermione wanted Draco. Badly.

Hermione wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him to her and relishing in the taste of spice and whiskey on his tongue. His arms dropped to lift her on top of the cabinet and his hips shifted between her knees. Instinctively, her hips angled forward, eager to rub against his. She gasped against his mouth as he tugged harshly at her hair. He was never gentle with her, but she loved it. Reveled in it.

Her hands slid down his arms, then his torso, exploring him. His lips were otherwise preoccupied with discovering every inch of her skin, and he hissed against her jaw when she dug her nails into fabric of his shirt, feeling his muscles tense against her touch.

There was a loud commotion from outside the room and Draco stepped away from her, cursing under his breath. Then, he looked at her a bit aggravated and said, "Looks like the cavalry has returned."

They rejoined the others and Draco reassured them that everything went swimmingly with Vince's apparent assassination leaving out any mention of Black's reaction to Hermione. No one questioned her presence.

Later that night, Hermione would close her eyes and slip her hand beneath her knickers to her slickness and dream of Draco touching her, wanting her.

* * *

 **A/N -** The title for this chapter comes from Ed Sheeran's song featuring PnB Rock and Chance the Rapper _Cross Me_ from the lines _know she going to slide any time you bitches talk shit / keep a little blade in her fucking lip gloss kit (aye) / no one say hi to me without her / better pay your respect to the queen_ xx


	4. To the Unknown

**Chapter 4: To the Unknown**

* * *

_24 December 1924_

_BELOVED BACHELOR MISSING: A REFLECTION OF HIS LIFE AND LEGACY_

_By Rita Skeeter_

_By the end of 1921, Mr. Malfoy had gathered quite a loyal following –_

Oh, did he Rita? Did he?

It's remarkable how little Britain knew of Draco and the Death Eaters, but alas, that was due to his and Narcissa's careful design.

_-and while young women everywhere were certainly not tired of seeing his face in the press, it was only just the beginning. Mr. Malfoy would come to be the face of Coco Chanel alongside model and film star Miss Fleur Delacour. It was their winter line, famously breathtaking with their complementary profiles, that sparked not only allegations that the two were secretly dating, but also Mr. Malfoy's future with Mr. Norman Hartnell._

_Mr. Hartnell is an English fashion designer who became famous due to Mr. Malfoy's constant appearance in his works, however often the latter of the two refuses to acknowledge it. The former would go on to become the favorite of the social elite and eventually the British Royal family. It was during the opening of his first house in London in 1923 that Mr. Hartnell would propose the_ Daily Prophet _nominate such a fine and outstanding man for Man of the Year_ _in 1924._

It's hard to believe that it's been three years already since that winter line was released.

The papers were ravenous for information on Draco and Fleur and their supposed love affair. She was lovely and, understandably, I was enormously envious of her slender figure and painstakingly aware of her _complementary profile_ to Draco's. They were beautiful and ethereal with their pale blonde hair and bright eyes surrounded by snow and daring to pose clinging to each other's bare, perfect skin.

I shouldn't have been jealous of her and her French accent and kind smile, but there I was, and she wasn't even the woman that directly resulted in me accepting my fate with Draco. To be fair to both women, that year – and particularly that winter – had been a very emotional time for me. All of it had been building up since I first took the name Penelope Clearwater and got myself into this mess, and while it wasn't a complete surprise that the dam had burst, I still didn't expect it to break the way it did.

At the hands of a deranged man, the words of a scornful woman, and the trigger of a loaded gun.

Much like now, actually.

* * *

_1 December 1921_

Hermione was just about to turn the corner into the dining room when there was a thunderous pounding at the front door of the Manor. She halted in the foyer, eyes widening as the staff shifted to allow the visitor an inch of space to declare who they were and what they wanted from Mr. Malfoy. All she caught was a flash of silver against dark blue before she turned on her heel and sprinted into the nearest vacant room, a toilette.

"Chief Inspector Horace Slughorn," the portly man said before pushing his way past the butlers and into the foyer. He glanced around at the spacious and elegant setting before gesturing to his comrade, "and this is Inspector Thomas Scabior."

"What can I do for you today, gentlemen?" The butler asked, frowning at their coats dripping all over his pristine hard wood floors.

"We need to have a chat with your young master," Slughorn informed him.

"A chat," Draco said, striding from down the hall to greet the two uniformed men with a polite and charming smile, "is that all? This wouldn't be a discreet interrogation, now would it, Chief Inspector?"

"Oh, Draco, my boy!" Slughorn grinned.

He sized up Draco quickly before patting his shoulder as if they were old friends, and Hermione's brows furrowed deeply. She was aware that Draco had quite a good amount of her police brethren on his payroll, but she had presumed it mostly consisted of street patrols and perhaps the occasional sergeant. If a _Chief Inspector_ was old friends with Draco, or worse on his payroll, then Fudge and Shacklebolt had absolutely no idea the extent of his corruption in their forces.

"How are you?" The older man gushed, flashing yellowed teeth when he smiled. "My, my you look _just_ like your father. More and more every time I see you, my boy!"

Draco sported his fictitious I Have Company to Flatter smile, "I'm honored you think so," he said. His grey gaze slid over to the other man and Hermione could have sworn she saw recognition spark behind his eyes. "Mr. Draco Malfoy," he said, offering a hand to the man.

He took the proffered hand and shook it, "Inspector Thomas Scabior." They nodded politely to each other before Draco turned his attention primarily back to the elder man.

"Shall we retire to the sitting room? I can have Winky whip up a cup of tea and some biscuits for you gentlemen…" His voice faded as did their footsteps as the three of them disappeared down the hall where Hermione could no longer see or hear them. She waited a full minute, checking her surroundings, before scampering off down the hall after them and turning sharply down what was now a very familiar corridor to her.

There was a painting – one of Renault's most famous – hanging but she carefully removed it from the wall of the small room and tucked it aside as she slid her eye into position.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Chief Inspector?" Draco asked, taking a seat opposite them instead of looming by the hearth as he usually did. His familiarity with them – and subsequent vulnerability – was significant.

"Oh, please, none of that. You must call me Horace, young man, I insist!" He half-reprimanded Draco. "I was very close with your father. Very close you know. I practically watched you grow up and – Oh! How is your mother? Effervescent Narcissa,"

Draco dimpled, "She's lovely, thank you for asking. She's in the garden now, I believe, if you would like me to ring for her?"

"Oh, no! Of course not, my boy! I wouldn't want to disturb her while she's tending to her dear flowers. Women can be so unforgiving when you interrupt them, and might I say, speaking from experience of course, that it _is_ best to leave them to their feminine devices. They're quite good at it quite good indeed!" Slughorn rambled.

Draco, much to Hermione's internal delight, let his mask fall slightly and grimaced at the sexist comments before blinking it back into place and resuming his charming character. "Right, well… How can I be of service to you both today?" His gaze flickered momentarily to Scabior before settling on Slughorn.

"Draco, my boy, I hate to trouble you. I really do, and I know how busy you are these days," Slughorn went on, pausing to sip at his tea. "With running the family company and heading your philanthropic endeavors, but I must ask you. I must."

He paused again and Hermione wondered how Draco was able to maintain his composure; she would have easily lost her patience and broke character with the dawdling old man. Chief Inspector or not, she could not imagine having to withstand having to listen to him go on and on and constantly lose focus from one tangent or another, and _she_ respected authority and coppers unlike Draco.

"Right," Slughorn continued after realizing Draco was not going to verbally indulge him. "I know you keep the most benevolent company about you, Draco," – Hermione stifled a laugh, practically choking on it – "but I'm afraid this matter has gone on far too long for my boss, Superintendent Fudge – have you met him? He's not as wonderful as me, _of course_ , but he has his moments - "

"Chief Inspector," coughed the man, Scabior, beside him. Slughorn waved him away impatiently.

"Yes, anyway – It is crucial that a certain… cargo, per se… is located and returned to its rightful owner." The elder copper summarized with pleading eyes.

Draco sipped languidly at his tea. "Cargo?" He repeated skeptically. "Why do you think I would be able to assist you with that, Horace?"

"My dear boy," Slughorn began, placing his teacup down with a clatter in his apparent enthusiasm. "I don't mean to imply that you have any business down in that nasty harbor, no of course not! You are much too clever, like your father, to invest your company in that area of commerce. No, no," he shook his head wildly. "I only meant I understand how well-liked and accepted you are by so many Londoners."

"Hm?" Draco half-agreed, motioning for the other man to go on.

"Right, well – Err – Scabior do feel free to jump in here any time now! I'm incredibly aware that I am your superior and far more familiar with Mr. Malfoy than you, but you must not let me be the only one to talk to him. How else are you to make connections and move up in the world? Take one from Mr. Malfoy's book, for crying out loud!" Slughorn said, gesturing for the reddish-brown haired man beside him to take lead in the conversation.

"Mr. Malfoy," he nodded amicably, and Draco returned the sentiment. "This missing cargo is of the highest discretion. Instructions from Mr. Winston Churchill himself have trickled down through the ranks. We have orders to keep this investigation under wraps and off-book, but Horace here volunteered you as a confidential informant."

"Hm, is that so?" Draco drawled. His silver brows lifted minutely as his scrutinizing eyes shifted from Scabior to Slughorn.

"It is a compliment," Slughorn insisted. "I would never believe _you_ to have any knowledge of the theft, Draco my boy!"

"Hm," he huffed.

"What my boss is trying to say," Scabior continued. "Is that he believes you will be monumentally helpful in recovering the lost cargo seeing as you have so many connections all over London."

"Naturally," Draco commented.

Scabior nodded, lacing his fingers and crossing one leg casually over the other. "It would be detrimental to all of Britain if this cargo were to fall into the wrong hands," he said. "So, if you do hear anything all we ask is that you let us know."

Slughorn agreed, sputtering out a few more incomplete sentences about how indebted the nation would be to Draco – which Hermione thought was an odd thing to say over a simple package retrieval, especially since his country already did owe him for his exceptional service as if that particular fact could be easily forgotten.

"Well, gentlemen," Draco said in a courteous manner. "What is the missing delivery?"

Slughorn stuttered momentarily, "Draco, my boy, you understand this is highly classified information – strictly confidential – You must attain to utmost secrecy."

"Yes, Horace," he replied calmly if perhaps a little drily. "I understand, however I would be exponentially more helpful to you – and ten times more aware of the implications – should I be able to recognize what is it Mr. Churchill wants found."

Scabior tapped his foot, bouncing it on his ankle as he glanced askance to Slughorn. The latter sighed and fidgeted.

"A large cache of weaponry has gone missing from the Royal Small Arms Factory." He swallowed. "Mr. Churchill needs the weapons recovered before – Well, as soon as possible."

Draco dragged his hand across his chin thoughtfully, "I can't imagine this shipment of arms is very easy to conceal gentlemen."

"No, Heaven's no," Slughorn agreed with a scoff. "Which is why it is absolutely imperative that it be found soon and returned to the British Royal army. As you can presume, Mr. Churchill is impossibly angered by its continued disappearance."

"Of course," Draco nodded.

"Since you are a famously decorated war veteran and have already done so much to help our nation, dear boy, I know that you will do what you can to help in this investigation." Slughorn grinned. "Though, I remind you, it absolutely _must_ remain undisclosed. Especially with the fairer sex," he added with a conspiratorial whisper.

Draco sighed, then leaned forward and winked at the two men, "What investigation?"

"Ah, well done, my boy! Clever as always, Draco!" Slughorn beamed, clapping his palms against his thighs before standing and motioning toward the exit. "Well, we better be off. Do reach out to us if you need anything, and don't forget to give Narcissa my warmest sentiments."

"Of course, Horace," he said, shaking the man's hand and leading him toward the large wooden door.

At the last second before the two uniformed men disappeared through the door, the younger of the two – Scabior – turned to Draco and handed him a business card. "In case you have any further questions,"

"Oh, Thomas!" Slughorn crowed. "The young Mr. Malfoy already _has_ my number. He has no need to have both of ours, how absurd."

Scabior indulged his boss in a polite smile before placing the card in Draco's palm, "Regardless, I insist,"

"Good day, gentlemen," Draco said, bidding them both farewell as he called in the butler to see them out of the Manor.

Hermione stumbled back from the wall, blinking several times to adjust to using both eyes, then quickly hung the painting and aimed herself anywhere less suspicious lest Draco or any other Death Eater discover what she'd been up to.

Less than a minute later, she heard Draco call out for Theo in the dining hall and ducked back into the toilettes opposite the large room. Over the usual breakfast chatter, she caught him saying, "Family meeting. Ten minutes." To which, Theo replied, though Hermione couldn't catch it over the scraping of the dining chairs across the floor as the men hurried to the drawing room.

"Nott," Draco shouted, and Hermione held her breath as Theo called back to him from the other side of the door. "Find Penny as well, will you?"

"Penny… Really?" Theo questioned. There was a loud, exasperated sigh followed by Theo adding, "Yes, fine. I'll get her."

Hermione swallowed and hurriedly stepped out of the bathroom, pretending to fix her sleeves.

"Ah, wonderful," Theo noted coming up to her. "I do hate unsolicited exercise this early in the morning, don't you?"

"Hm?" She frowned.

He shrugged, cupping her elbow and directing her through the dining room and into the large sitting room, "This Manor is far too big. Too many long corridors for my taste,"

* * *

"What the fuck is she doing here?" Narcissa hissed.

Theo slid his gaze over to Draco as a way of answering her as he forced Hermione to sit in one of the velvet armchairs beside the fireplace, taking the other one. He propped his foot up, balancing his ankle over his knee, and placed his forefinger on the edge of his lip. Hermione tried to settle into the chair but couldn't quite get comfortable as Narcissa turned her attention toward Draco.

"Draco," she seethed. "What the fuck is she doing here?"

He sparked a cigarette and took a long drag before meeting her eye. "Mother," he replied warningly.

"No," Narcissa interrupted, wagging a disapproving finger in her son's direction. "Don't you dare take that tone with me." She pulled out a glass and poured a dark liquid in it and took a long sip (which made Hermione instantly blanch at the thought of drinking at this hour). She drew in a sharp breath and focused her gaze on Draco once again.

"She was supposed to be long gone by now," she continued without hesitation, flinging an arm accusingly in Hermione's direction. " _You two_ ," – she directed the accusatory hand then toward Draco and Theo – "were supposed to get rid of her the first bloody night. Then, after Longbottom. Then, after Karkaroff. _Now_ you expect me to be fine with her sitting in on a family meeting, eh? Riddle me that one my darling son."

"Mother," Draco repeated, voice low.

She sniffed, "To hell with the rest of us, right? Our opinions must not bloody matter one bit." Her glass was half-drained by then and she eyed the crystal decanter on the bar cart as if she was going to refill her glass, but then slid her gaze back to Draco reluctantly.

Draco bristled and dropped the cigarette from between his lips. His grey eyes, dark and stormy and dangerous, never left his mother's. "She saved my life," he stated icily. "She stays. She's earned it." The rest of the room was eerily silent. His orders had been clear before but now – her presence in the meeting – spoke volumes. There was no more questioning her position in her gang.

Unless, that is, one was Narcissa Malfoy.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Draco! Tuck your cock back into your pants and open your eyes. She doesn't _belong_ here, and she certainly doesn't belong in this fucking room right now." She snapped.

Hermione's eyes flickered helplessly back and forth the two of them, watching Draco's micro-expressions – or attempting to – to try and discern his thoughts. Per usual, it was an impossible feat as well as futile. Next to her, Theo sat erect with his hands clasped firmly in his lap; there were tiny angry crescents where his nails dug into the fragile skin on top of his hands.

"Think what you want about it – Fuck knows you've always thought men incapable of using their heads," – "Both of them," Narcissa muttered under her breath – "but that will not extend to this situation, are we clear? Penny stays. She's proven herself enough for me to trust her in other manners, so what's to stop her sitting in on family meetings, eh?"

Narcissa looked very much like she wanted to continue arguing her point but at Draco's glinted, narrowed eyes she refrained from doing so. Instead she reached for the rest of the whiskey and took a seat on the end of a sofa, kicking her feet out onto the coffee table.

"Right, then," Draco said, addressing the whole of the room. "If anyone has anything else that they want to fucking say about Penny being here, then fucking say it because after this I don't want to hear one more bloody word on it. Understood?"

His booming demand was met with utter silence.

"Brilliant," he went on. "Now, let's get down to bloody business."

Draco picked up the cigarette butt from the posh red rug it landed on and dropped it ceremoniously in an ash tray before lighting another one. He exhaled a puff of smoke, then leaned against the hearth. It was his usual standing point, though Hermione couldn't help but wonder if he stood closer to her armchair than to Theo's intentionally or if he didn't even realize what he was doing.

Theo cleared his throat casually, "About the coppers…?"

"Yes," Draco commented. He waved a hand about the room, surveying the few remaining people; there were only seven of them regularly occupying the Manor now with Greg and Vince over in America and Pansy and Daphne still in university. "About the coppers. I'll get to that, but first let me start with the smaller meeting notes."

He took a long drag, then held the cigarette between his forefinger and thumb as he went on. "Theo, how is the expansion going?"

Theo ran his thumb along his lower lip, "Fine. Finishing up a few details in the contract with Rosmerta and then it should be an official property of Nott Holdings."

Hermione squinted at him, not understanding, but she didn't bother to question it – especially not aloud with Narcissa already having questioned her loyalty – and mentally made a note to poke around with Theo later. Perhaps he would slip up enough to give her a clue. Her attention cut to Draco, who nodded and moved onto Graham, and wondered if he might be slightly easier to get information out of now with their current inexplicable relationship.

Relationship was definitely a stretch. It could more accurately be described as the occasional devastatingly hot kiss and the even rarer bout of intimate conversation.

She sighed.

"You're fond of horses, aren't you Montague?" Draco asked him.

Narcissa snorted into her glass, shaking her head. Graham's hazel eyes flickered over to her briefly before he turned back to Draco with a quizzical expression and a listless shrug. "Yes…?" He replied, dragging out the response.

"Excellent," Draco remarked, unfazed by the hesitation. "How would you feel about investing some of that new fortune of yours in a legal betting license and running a shop, eh?" His eyes glinted, thought their silver hue was clue enough to let the other man know he was calculating and plotting something.

"Sure," Graham nodded. "I could certainly use something to keep me busy. What about the young lads?" That, Hermione knew, was Graham's primary role in the Death Eaters; he was responsible for training and aligning the boys with the gang as well as tailoring them to one day join it.

Draco shrugged, "Take them with you. They could stand to learn a trade or two," his eyes slid over to Marcus, waving one of his hands at the man. "Make sure they keep up with their other… activities. Especially your brother," he chuckled into his next drag. "That little shit."

Marcus smirked, leaning back against the sofa and sharing a glance with Graham. Both nodded toward Draco, giving their understanding as well as loyalty without any further questions. Narcissa, however, was always ready to scrutinize Draco's motives and movements.

To Hermione, it always felt like Draco was playing a game of chess with the world; meticulously selecting his pieces and moving them accordingly around his board. He was exceptionally skilled at it, as well, and from the cunning look on Narcissa's pale face, it was not difficult to see which of his parents Draco actually took after despite the older copper's insistence that he resembled the other.

"Why?" Narcissa probed, narrowing her eyes at her son. "Why should we be investing ourselves and our resources into betting shops? There's hardly any money in that, Draco," she noted with a grimace. "Not to mention how we're already investing too much energy in that bloody fool, Karkaroff, as it is."

"Precisely, Mother," he said, tilting his head in her direction to acquiesce her statements. He exhaled a few rings of smoke, exact and methodical, then cleared his throat. "We are wasting much too much of our time guarding Karkaroff's coin from the bloody Order at every race," he took another drag. "Aren't we, Blaise? You're the one with the Death Eater's numbers. How are we doing?"

"Well," Blaise began, toying with a biscuit before discarding it and leaning back to give the room his full attention. "Although working for Karkaroff has given us the direct advantage of cutting off the Order's most profitable pursuit, the agreement was scarcely advantageous other than that. The inside bets are welcome, of course, as well as the cut we take, but…" He trailed off, meeting Draco's eye.

Draco nodded, once, seemingly unconcerned with what Blaise was about to say next despite the latter's nervous twitch in his facial expression. Blaise sighed and went on, turning to address Narcissa mostly this time.

"Narcissa is right," he confirmed. "We aren't making much compared to what we could be doing with our men in the meantime. It doesn't seem worth it unless…" He trailed off again, chewing on his lip.

Draco took over readily, "Unless we don't work for him."

There was a moment of silence before, predictably, Narcissa snapped, "You're bloody fucking joking." He raised a brow to her, challenging the statement. "Draco," she cautioned. "Over a year ago, we all sat around here and had to listen to you _lose your fucking mind_ and decide to go after Karkaroff in the first place and now you're telling us – What? – that you want to up and leave? What happened to Blaise's point about the bloody Order? You think they won't easily take back that hunting ground the moment the Death Eater's clear out?"

"We won't be clearing out," he informed her evenly. "We would almost certainly be staying."

"So, what?" She snapped. "We bloody compete with the fucker?"

Again, Draco raised a brow. "No competition," he said. He took one long, last inhale of smoke before tapping the butt into an ash tray and clearing his throat. He tucked his hands into his trousers and half-sat on the arm of Theo's chair. "We don't work with him. We don't work for him. We don't even work bloody against him."

" _What?_ "

Draco nodded slowly, letting the sentiment settle in everyone's heads. "We're not going to work for Karkaroff anymore because we're going to overthrow him and take his place. No competing, and no submission. We overthrow the ignorant fuck and _take his place_." Draco gestured to Graham. "Montague will run the betting shop and collect all the money on the bets," he paused, eying Narcissa's open mouth and held up a hand, "I know it won't take in much revenue. Blaise and I have seen Karkaroff's numbers. They don't make a dent in what we're currently taking in."

"So?" Narcissa pushed. "Then what? Why even bloody bother? Just cut him out and leave it be," she commented with furrowed brows.

Hermione watched intently as Draco's mouth quirked slightly upwards; he was pleased that she had brought that point up, Hermione observed. She was curious herself and had been glad that Narcissa had thought to point it out.

"That," he stated. "is exactly what I was hoping you would say." The rest of the room, based on their furrowed brows and slacked jaws, were just as confused as Hermione was apparently. They all focused on Draco as his next words invited them in to glimpse at a tiny piece of his innerworkings. "We must bother, firstly, because it will prevent the Order from gaining any form of income from the racetracks in the area. Secondly, because I don't care for Karkaroff of his imbecile prodigy and want them out of London. Thirdly, and most importantly, because we need a legal enterprise to funnel money through."

Theo was the first to counter him. "Expanding Nott Holdings isn't enough?" He challenged.

Blaise answered for Draco. He cleared his throat and informed the rest of them that, "No it's not enough. The revenue that we're bringing in from the opium and from the American prohibition is impressive. Ridiculous, really." He shook his head. "Fucking absurd."

Hermione felt a rush of warmth wade through her and felt a smile pull at her lips at the thought that she contributed to that. That, even more likely, she was solely responsible for that income. A dark thought struck in the back of her head that she shouldn't be proud of that, but she shoved it away hastily and refocused on the meeting.

"It's not enough on its own," Draco summarized for Theo and Narcissa's wary gazes. "We need the pubs, the inn, _and_ the betting shop in order to cover our tracks well enough. Splitting it up and spreading it out over all of them should be immensely difficult for the HMCE to flag as illegal."

"So…" Blaise said, cocking a dark brow between Draco and Theo. "When are we making a move on Karkaroff? And when?"

Narcissa silently sipped at her drink, though it was clear from her foot tapping impatiently that she very much would like to know the answer to those as well.

Theo lifted his shoulders and let out a heavy sigh, angling his chin up to Draco, who smiled vacantly back. He craned his neck toward Blaise, "Those are very good questions." He remarked. "For another time. For now," Draco noted, rising from the arm rest, "is there any further topics that need to be discussed? Speak now or forever keep your fucking mouth shut."

Hermione coughed, tentatively inclining her head. She had (barely) resisted the urge to raise her hand; ever the dutiful student.

"Yes, Penny?" Draco addressed. His silver eyes sparked with amusement, yet his exterior remained cool and stiff.

Hermione glanced askance to Theo, then asked, "The coppers?"

"Ah, yes," he grinned. "Nearly forgot about those fuckers." Though she sincerely doubted that was true. Nevertheless, Draco went on, indulging the others. "This morning I received a Chief Inspector Slughorn and Inspector Scabior for a… discussion of sorts."

Theo grunted, "Slughorn? Really?"

"Yes," Draco grimaced. He swiftly angled himself toward Narcissa, "He says hello, by the way, and sends his kindest regards to your health and womanly wiles."

She snorted, "Fucking buffoon." To which, Draco let a full smirk display over his features.

"Slughorn," Marcus commented aloud. "Is he one of the higher-ups on our payroll?"

From Blaise with a shake of his head, "No. The other one is, though."

"Scabior?" Montague recalled. Blaise nodded.

"Why were they here?" Theo pressed, redirecting the questions toward Draco. Hermione leaned into the armchair, tucking her legs beneath her and propping her chin up on her palm.

"They think I'm trustworthy," Draco replied with an air of debauchery.

Narcissa scoffed, setting down the empty glass and decanter with a clang. "Imagine that," she added drily. "Must have something to do with that bloody reputation of yours."

"For which we are grateful, Narcissa," Theo smirked. "Still," he shifted his blue eyes to Draco again. "What did they want?"

"My help," – another scoff from Narcissa, and even Hermione had to bite back a laugh at the woman's unspoken commentary on the idea of Draco being cooperative with law enforcement – "and information. They think I know the whereabouts of some precious shipment they misplaced, or at the very least know of someone who would know something."

"Shipment?" Blaise questioned.

Draco winked at him, then went on. "The RSAF has misplaced a very valuable crate of SMLE guns and approximately fifteen-thousand rounds of ammunition to accompany it."

Hermione's jaw nearly hit the floor. She quickly righted herself, fidgeting in her chair at Theo's sharp glare, and swallowed the lump at the back of her throat.

"Misplaced?" Narcissa contested with pursed lips. Draco nodded. "So, they believe," she sighed. "That you are capable of helping them locate their missing arms? Why?"

Draco shrugged, "You know how Slughorn can be," he told her. At that, she tilted her head considering it, and then reached for a cigarette and a match box. "You also know how Scabior can be, the fucking sell-out, so I didn't say anything to either of them."

"Because you don't know anything?" Narcissa ventured, arching a brow hopefully. He raised a neatly poured glass to his lips and returned her perceptive expression with a hint of amusement. "Bloody hell, Draco. _Don't_ ," she pointed a finger at him. "Don't fucking tell me you _stole_ from the _RSAF_?"

He slowly placed the glass down on the coffee table and stuffed both hands in his pockets, rocking back onto his heels. Narcissa threw her arms in the air and began pacing the far side of the room.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" She snapped. " _How_ did you even - " She stopped abruptly, and her cold eyes flickered back and forth between Draco, Theo and Blaise. "Spill," she instructed the boys. "Fucking out with it."

Theo sighed, rubbing his temple, and let his blue eyes fall on Blaise and Draco with a tired expression. "That's what you two have hiding at my pub?"

Blaise, in turn, gaped and snapped his head in Draco's direction. "That's what I stole and moved from the bloody harbor? Fucking _RSAF_ arms?"

Hermione's eyes widened, piecing together the small clues she'd bore witness to over the past few months as she accompanied Draco here and there. Graham and Marcus, having had likely no direct implication in the stolen weaponry, turned their heads around the room as Hermione did and watched the conversation unfold with piqued interest.

"Tell me," Narcissa seethed, regaining her vocabulary and shooting it at her son. "What the fuck did you do, Draco?"

"It wasn't on purpose," he admitted, sighing. "I asked Blaise to nip a shipment of car parts that I intended to use and resell – the usual – but when I finally went to check out the crate… well," he pressed his lips into a thin line and lifted his shoulders marginally.

"That was months ago," Blaise noted, exchanging a wary glance with Narcissa.

She crossed her arms over her chest, raising one hand to tap her pristine fingernails against her enviously defined cheekbone. "Why the bloody hell do we still have it then, hm? _Don't_ tell me you still have them?" She gaped incredulously.

Theo groaned, "Unless any of our boys recently dug up a ton of dirt beneath another two tons of whiskey and lager, then I'm afraid we very much still have it. Buried beneath the floorboards of the Cavalier's warehouse." He lamented.

Draco tilted his head comically toward Theo while keeping his eyes focused on his mother's crazed expression. "That," he agreed.

"Un- _fucking_ -believable," she hissed. "Why? _Why?_ "

He swept a hand through his hair nonchalantly, biding his time before responding. Hermione knew it was not for lack of words – god knows he's never without that – but more for dramatic effect and some bizarre leader tactic to draw the focus in the room toward him. Summoning silence. Demanding attention.

"I knew the minute I saw it that it would make a fantastic bargaining chip one day," he supplied. "As for your next question," he said, reading his mother's contorted expression with ease. "I did not mention it to the coppers, nor do I plan to. This information – the whereabouts of the guns – does not leave this room. _Are we clear?_ "

There was a round of murmured affirmations from everyone in the room.

Then, Draco continued. "They don't know we have it," he told them. "Not even close, and I'd like to keep it that way until absolutely necessary. They're desperate to retrieve the weaponry and punish the thieves who outsmarted them."

Theo pursed his lips, "How do you know they don't believe we know anything?"

Draco fished out a small white business card from his trousers and held it up between two fingers. "This," he explained. "Scabior wrote _one evil_ on the backside which is from - "

"Socrates," Hermione called out with a sudden gasp of realization.

"Yes," he acknowledged.

In his pause, she took the signal to add. "There is only one good, knowledge, and one evil, ignorance _,_ " she quoted. Draco nodded to her, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips, and Hermione flushed under the compliment.

"What the bloody hell does that mean?" Theo demanded. "We aren't all nerds like the two of you - "

"It means," Draco interrupted with an irritated sigh. "That they know nothing. It means that their interest in me has nothing to do with the Death Eaters. It's a code I developed with my higher-up coppers. If they were on to us, he would have written the other code, _one good_."

Blaise grimaced, "And we can just – What? – _Trust_ that Scabior won't fuck us over? Lie to us?"

Theo stood and swung his arm around Draco's shoulders, leaning against his mate. He eyed Blaise skeptically, "You seriously think that fucker is dumb enough to cross the Death Eaters? His diminutive brain couldn't even create realistic enough nightmares for him to fear compared to what great hell we would bring upon him."

"That," Draco indulged with a cheeky grin.

"Where there is reverence there is fear, but there is not reverence everywhere that there is fear, because fear presumably has a wider extension than reverence." Hermione chimed in, again quoting Socrates.

Draco glanced over his and Theo's adjoining shoulders to wink at her before turning back to the rest of the room and smirking, adding, "Also that."

* * *

"Remind me why I have to be here," Hermione muttered as she stepped into a gleaming office lobby. The building itself was void of any color but had been decorated for the holiday season and was overflowing with a shallow sense of joy.

Draco permitted a small smirk, "You are my assistant, Miss Clearwater, are you not?"

"Since when have I ever done even the most remotely mundane assistant work for you, Mr. Malfoy?" She challenged, shooting him a knowing look.

He merely chuckled in response, and then placed his hand at the middle of her spine and guided her past the woman sitting behind the counter with a pleasant nod. "Miss Patil," he greeted.

"Mr. Malfoy," the woman dimpled. "They're ready for you upstairs."

"Wonderful," he commented briskly before leading Hermione up the staircase.

Hermione was out of breath by the time they arrived at the correct floor. Draco reached out to open the door but paused, glancing over his shoulder at her. She blanched, a flutter of panic emanating in her veins. Just when she thought he would open the door and lead her into certain doom – perhaps having finally discovered her true identity – he dropped the handle instead and turned to back her into a corner in the stairwell.

She gasped, all of the air rushing out of her lungs as he placed his palms on either side of her face. His chest was pressed tightly against hers, constricting her movement and any chance of escape. Then he lowered his mouth to hers.

Her mind was reeling, trying to register the kiss. She stilled against him. It was still unclear whether or not he was leading her to her murder scene and ridding himself of her once and for all instead of to a Christmas photoshoot for Chanel as he had told her. But then, before her mind could puzzle out what the kiss meant – Was it goodbye? Was it asking for forgiveness? – she sighed, and her body gave in to his touch.

His lips were rough, commanding and dominating, as his hips flushed against hers, pressing her against the wall and securing her in place. One of his hands dropped to take hers from around his neck and hold them above her head. The tension in her shoulders dissipated as soon as he took control of her body; in the beginning, Hermione used to try and fight back, even a little, but lately she had found she rather liked it when he exerted his power over her (permitting that he continued to know just how far to push her, or how hard).

Draco was not the kind of man to give himself easily or readily, and Hermione found herself constantly deciphering him. She had known him for quite some time now and spent the better part of nearly every day with him; there were infinite number of clues that she gathered in attempt to solve the enigmatic man that was Mr. Draco Malfoy, ruthless gang leader and apparent adored aristocrat, but no matter how many she collected, at the end of the day he was always a mystery.

She briefly wondered if he still found her extraordinarily puzzling as his lips brushed down the side of her neck. His teeth scraped against her clavicle as he bent his head to kiss and suck at the fragile skin just below where it protruded from her chest. Hermione shivered.

Draco pulled her closer to him, flexing his coarse fingertips against the sliver of skin that peaked out between the pretty pinstripe coat and pencil skirt she wore. She bit down on her lip to refrain from letting out a terribly embarrassing moan as his lips lowered again to the dip in her blouse where her breasts were pushed up.

"Hm," he murmured appreciatively against her pebbled skin, "You should wear this more often."

Hermione slowly exhaled, willing her heart to – _for the love of god_ – beat at a less erratic pace. His tongue slipped out to trail up her cleavage and base of her throat. Her pulse skyrocketed. They could be found out any minute, by quite literally any person, and yet he didn't seem to want to stop touching her. Not that she wanted him to, she thought.

However, as if her inner ponderings themselves had awoken something in him, Draco snapped back and stepped away from her, adjusting his suit and trousers. Hermione heaved slightly, then likewise fixed her appearance, stumbling after him in a trance as he held open the door for her.

Inside was exactly what one might expect to see from a high-end French fashion designer shooting what was expected to be the most famous Christmas advert; there was no doubt that whatever the product was, it would be well coveted by hundreds of thousands across Britain.

As it turns out, the product had been a new line of perfume and cologne which for some reason, unbeknownst to Hermione, called for Draco and Fleur – the most beautiful embodiment of a woman that Hermione had ever seen – to pose in _very_ intimate positions with absolutely _no_ clothing on.

It struck her as unnerving at first, when both of them undressed for the exuberant French photographer, Maxime, who called out things like "C'est magnifique!" and "Donne-moi la convoitise, mes chers!" as Miss Chanel herself nodded and pointed from the sidelines, whispering tidbits of instructions into the models' ears.

Then, it settled in a deeply problematic pit in her stomach at seeing how flawless the two of them were wrapped in each other's arms. Fleur had a figure so tall and lean that Hermione felt immensely frumpy and plain next to her ethereal features. Of course, Draco was no better. He shone all golden and godlike as he usually did in the public eye, but with his musculature bared and his grey eyes sparking something heavenly, it was tremendously unfair.

Hermione found she couldn't look away.

Though, she had to admit, she preferred the kind of beautiful he was when he was tousled and dazed, blinking into consciousness in the dim lighting of his bedroom, tangled in between his sheets and gazing at her as if she was the anchor to pull him back from his night terrors. Often, that was the case. It made her smile despite the flare of jealously bubbling in her at the sight of Fleur draping her delicate hands across his torso and pressing her lips to his jaw; the oversized glass bottle balanced precariously between her sculpted shoulder and his angled neck.

"See something you liked?" Draco taunted, sliding up next to her as he buttoned his shirt.

Hermione caught the silvery sparkle in his eye and boldly reached forward to tuck the loose ends of his oxford into his trousers, then securing them against his hips. She peered up at him with a hint of a smirk, "No," she lied.

"Are you absolutely sure, Penny?" He murmured, tucking a loose curl behind her ear and angling his hips toward her.

She hastily removed her hands from his belt loop, then stepped away from him with a full, gleaming smile to further tease him. "I'm sure," she shrugged. Hermione let her gaze flicker down his impeccable figure as he slowly put on his vest and coat with deliberation meant to send her mind spinning into a realm of dirty fantasies. It worked. "I'm sure," she said again, less convincing this time.

Draco's lip quirked.

"Monsieur Malfoy!" Fleur called out, heavily accented and breathless. She sauntered away from Maxime and slinked a translucent white dress over her shoulders as she made her way to them.

Hermione instantly grimaced, unable to conceal her dislike at the way the woman was looking at Draco, and he caught it. A low laugh rumbled through him, and as he turned to greet Fleur, he slipped a hand behind Hermione's back, pulling her toward him by the curve of her hip.

"Miss Delacour," he beamed. "Please call me Draco. After all, we've seen each other naked." He joked, winking at the French woman.

Hermione bristled in his arms despite her best effort not to give any more of her distaste for this particular errand away; in reality, she would have much rather preferred to accompany Draco on one of his bloodier and more vulgar errands than this one. What that said about her and her character after spending so much time undercover was unsettling, and yet, there she was.

"Draco," the woman repeated with a kind smile. "Fleur, I insist as well. Oh," she gasped, a gentle blush spreading over her cheeks. "Who is this on your arm?"

"This is Miss Penelope Clearwater, my assistant" he informed her, tightening his grip on Hermione's hip as he did so, and she held her ground so as not to fall into him in the process.

"Penny," she offered with a forced grin, marveling at the stunning woman standing before her.

"Assistant?" Fleur repeated, glancing back and forth between them before giggling with a sudden realization. "Ah, I see! One of those – Euh – Sex things? A cover?"

Hermione choked on something in the back of her throat and had to spend several long and embarrassing moments trying to clear it. Meanwhile, Draco smiled mischievously, sharing a conspiratorial expression with Fleur. "No," he said, flexing his palm against Hermione's upper back and soothing her through her bouts of coughing. "It's not like that."

"Ah, I don't understand. Why not?" Fleur lamented and then when Hermione finally gathered herself, scrunched her striking face at her in confusion. "You are aware le garçon is very attractive, yes? As are you, Penny. You would both make a lovely couple. I don't understand why sex is not happening, but – Euh – Perhaps, it is the French in me thinking it is a – Comment dit-on? – No-brainer."

Hermione pressed her lips into a thin line to prevent herself from dropping her jaw, then nodded absently to the long-legged model who had mistakenly referred to _her_ as attractive.

* * *

Hermione was finally starting to feel welcome in the Manor and among the Death Eaters and it wasn't because Draco had finally allowed her to sit in on their family meeting's but because of the mundane, seemingly minute interactions she shared with them.

For instance, when Draco barged into the dining room during a casual lunch and muttered incoherently under his breath, eyes blazing, and Theo's head snapped up to exchange a peculiar look with Hermione. She subtly shook her head, relaying that she had no idea what had caused Draco's mood. The infinitesimally small narrowing of Theo's already narrowed eyes told her that this particular behavior of Draco's was odd. More than normal.

"Oi," Theo said, leaning back against his chair and pointing a bread soldier at Draco's overall lack of composure. "What's wrong?"

Another minor indication of Hermione's accepted and valued presence in the Manor was when Draco's eyes finally adjusted and refocused on where he was, they scanned the room and met hers in the span of a single breath. She held hers as she kept her eyes trained on him. His hands were clenched into fists at his side, his shoulders were tensed and raised, and the longer blond strands of his hair fell messily onto his forehead.

"Nott," Draco said, shifting his gaze from Hermione to Theo across from her. From the tone of his voice, both of them instantly dropped their food and stood up. "We have a problem," he sighed.

"Well," Theo pressed. "What the fuck is it?"

"Satan."

Hermione didn't understand the reference or code or whatever it was, but Theo clearly did. His blue eyes immediately widened, "What?" He gaped. "Where? When?"

Draco replied through gritted teeth, "Yes. Here. Tonight."

"What the _fuck_?" Theo snapped. "Since when?"

He sighed, running a hand down his mouth and then raking it through his hair. "Since now," he replied. "I just got word." At Theo's continued flabbergasted expression, Draco waved his hands at him and reached for a cigarette and a match from his pocket, tossing the packs to Theo afterwards. "Don't ask why because I have no bloody fucking idea."

Theo slid a cigarette between his lips, precariously balancing it, and then slid the pack across the dining table to Hermione. She cautiously took one out as Theo sparked his and then leaned over to do hers as well. He caught her mildly curious expression and blew out a low whistle in her direction, "You're going to need a lot more than that by the end of the week, Penny."

Hermione bit her lip, took a long drag, and then shakily breathed out a cloud of smoke as her gaze flickered back and forth between the two very tense men.

"Hm," Theo noted with an air of curiosity. He cocked his head at her, "Aren't you going to ask who we're talking about or what it has to do with you?"

She wanted, desperately. However, Hermione believed if they were going to tell her they would have done it already and so, like so many other things, she figured asking questions would be pointless and unsuccessful.

Instead she took another long drag and met Theo's eye with a teasing glint, "I don't see the point. You'll simply tell me I'm asking too many questions, Nott."

Draco barked out a single laugh, almost choking on trying to hold it in. Theo shot him a meaningless glare and Draco shrugged, "She's got you there."

Theo rolled his eyes, flicking Draco the bird, and then returned his attention to Hermione. "Of all times to learn that bloody lesson, you choose _now_ , Penny?" She shrugged and gestured through another exhale of smoke for him to indulge her then if that's what he wanted. "Ask him," Theo said, motioning to the thin-lipped blond standing between them. "Ask him who Satan is."

Hermione rolled the half-gone cigarette between her fingers and looked Draco in the eye. She took a deep breath, then said, "Who is Satan?"

"My ex," he confessed.

"Oh, come on now, Draco," came a trilling new voice from behind Hermione. "I wasn't _all_ bad."

She turned to see a petite brunette leaning against the doorframe with a sickly-sweet smile spread across rouge lips. Hermione was taken aback by how much this woman resembled Narcissa in her demeanor and marveled at how different she was from Pansy and Daphne just by asserting herself in the room. The petite woman, evidently Draco's ex, strode further into the dining room and plucked a grape from Theo's plate and plopped it in her mouth with a pop, "Nott," she dimpled.

"Greengrass," he grumbled in response, leaning protectively over his plate and swatting her black-gloved hand away when she reached for another piece of fruit.

Hermione blinked.

"Greengrass?" She accidentally let slip. Draco's jaw clenched as his eyes slid from one petite brunette to the other.

"Yes," the other woman smiled, not bothering to conceal her eying Hermione up and down. "Astoria Greengrass," she said, coming up to Hermione with a proffered hand. "Pleasure."

"Penny," Hermione breathed, shaking her hand. "Are you - "

"Daphne's sister," Astoria supplied with a smirk. "Younger," she looked away from Hermione and sized up Draco with hungry eyes, trailing her gloved hand down his three-piece suit. "Smarter," then she grabbed Draco's chin in her small grasp and brought his face down to her level and placed a kiss on his cheek, leaving ruby-red lips with a chuckle. "Better," she shrugged.

"That's debatable," Draco muttered.

Astoria elbowed him playfully, "I love my sister, of course. She's lovely and pretty, but we've always had different…" She paused for a long pause to let her green eyes wander down Draco's physique. " _Taste_ ," she finished.

"Oh," Hermione remarked dumbly.

She wanted to resent this woman – the one who not only _had_ been previously involved with Draco but also clearly wanted to be involved with him _again_ – but she found she couldn't quite muster the energy. It was an odd and completely unfathomable sensation knowing that seeing adverts of Fleur alone was enough to spark an evil green monster in her subconscious, but watching Astoria Greengrass practically undress Draco with one glance right in front of her eyes was less vexing.

It was almost… admirable?

The woman, like Narcissa, was the kind of woman who didn't seem to care what others thought of her because she was comfortable enough in her own skin and with her own assets – whatever those may be – to demand what she was owed or at the very least voice her opinion with confidence.

Hermione respected her.

Hermione wanted to _be_ her.

Astoria Greengrass, from what Hermione gathered in all thirty seconds that she'd met her, was exactly the kind of brilliant, beautiful, and badass woman that Hermione wanted to embody. That particular thought didn't diminish over the week. They didn't spend a lot of time together, and while Hermione should have been more infuriated that Astoria consistently tried to get Draco alone at the end of the night, she could only look on the two of them with quiet curiosity.

Perhaps it helped that Draco constantly looked irritated by her presence and more than once had looked over her head to meet Hermione's eyes as he tried to convey something through a single glance. Pleading her for something, if she was not mistaken.

"Penny," Theo said, tearing her gaze away from Astoria and Draco to meet his icy blue eyes, mirroring glaciers.

Hermione blinked away the image of Astoria swiping away a stray strand of Draco's hair and turned to face Theo with a strained, exasperated sigh. "Yes?"

He looked at her and his eyes were glaciers. The dark-haired man sitting beside her on the red velvet sofa next to the decorated Christmas tree rolled his eyes at her poor attempt to hide her flickering gaze by the hearth. He opened his mouth, likely to tell her something along the lines of "Don't make me fucking repeat myself, Clearwater," but instead, he promptly snapped his mouth shut. Theo hurried out of his seat and darted toward Blaise – who was currently engaged in a futile chess match with Narcissa – and as Hermione furrowed her brows to protest his sudden absence, was joined by another person.

The scent of jasmine and vanilla wafted into her senses.

"Penny," came a softer, more feminine voice.

Hermione inhaled sharply at the sight of Astoria beside her. She bit back the gasp on the tip of her tongue and nodded amicably, swallowing the dryness in the back of her throat. "Astoria," she smiled, raising her glass to the woman. She, in turn, raised her own glass of wine and her lips quirked upwards.

"You know," she stated. "I hear Narcissa takes great care of her gardens. I bet they look lovely this time of year… especially with the recent snowfall." Astoria cocked a single, dark brow at Hermione questioningly.

Her brown eyes flitted over to Narcissa – her knight effortlessly cornering Blaise's king; a triumphant smile edging across her features – and then back to her younger protegee. Hermione did not need to claim to know Astoria very well to know that she was not interested in the upkeep of Narcissa's gardens. Still, she replied with a kind smile.

"Yes," Hermione breathed. "They look heavenly. Though," she added, tilting the remainder of her wine to her lips, soaking them in a deep rouge. "It's likely as cold as it is lovely,"

Astoria's smile broadened, "As are most divine things, yes?" Her sage green eyes landing on the silvery glow of Draco's head across the room momentarily. "I would hate to have to leave the city without paying my dues. That would be most unfortunate, don't you think, Penny?"

Hermione, who wasn't entirely certain if they were talking about Narcissa's gardens or Draco anymore, blinked. She placed her glass carefully on the table and stood up, dusting off her holiday dress, "Shall we gather our coats and pay it a visit?"

"What a wonderful idea," Astoria beamed. She tipped the rest of the dark liquid back without hesitating and stood to follow Hermione.

Both women received their coats, hats and gloves from Winky in silence, then traipsed through the side corridors and out into the gardens. Hermione fought the urge to glance back at the French doors illuminated by the rest of the Death Eater's enjoying the Christmas festivities; mostly because Astoria did not look behind her, but she was sure if she _were_ to look that she would see Theo with his head bent loyally to Draco's ear, nodding toward their disappearing figures in the snow.

Hermione and Astoria walked through the gardens with the snow crunching underneath their shoes. Other than the occasional call of an owl, there was little other noise in the dead of the night until Astoria spoke up. "I know what you must think of me," she announced.

"I don't know what you mean," Hermione replied airily – half because it was true and half because she definitely did _not_ want to anger this woman. She was quite sure that if there was history between her and Draco (not to mention her own relation to Daphne, a known Death Eater as well) that she was just as violent and dangerous as everyone else in the Manor, if not more so.

In truth, Hermione had gathered very little about Astoria Greengrass other than she was an old flame of Draco's with a renewed interest in pursuing him and that her arrival was not welcomed by many in the house outside of Narcissa and Daphne. Hermione presumed her own character was as much as a mystery, but she highly doubted _her_ existence was as much of a threat to this woman as vice versa.

Astoria weaved expertly through the gardens, and at a pace that Hermione found herself struggling to keep up with.

"He did love me once you know," she said.

Hermione bristled, and Astoria let out a low, snort of a chuckle.

"Please," she scoffed. "Don't do that. Let's not do that." He green eyes shifted from the snowcapped hedges to Hermione's flushed cheeks. "I would like to think we're better than that," she added.

Hermione frowned, "I'm not sure I - "

Astoria sighed loudly, cutting her off. "I am nauseatingly tired of women being pitted against women, aren't you, Penny?" She proposed. Hermione nodded along, mesmerized by the sheer authority in the other woman's voice; much like Narcissa, she demanded attention and, at the same time, did not wait for it. "I'm told you are quite brilliant and would very much like to get to know you, you know. I would hate for our mutual interest in a man to come in the way of that. It's absurdly primeval."

Hermione cleared her throat quietly, "Yes," she croaked out. "Yes," she repeated, and at the twinkle in Astoria's eyes she went on. "I always hated that. Men are far more likely to stand beside one another while women see another of the same sex as competition."

"Precisely!" The other woman crowed encouragingly. "In many other species – probably all except humans – the females band together long before and long after a male comes into their lives while the men are forced to perform ridiculous mating rituals and prove their worth to them." She paused, a smirk spreading across her lips. "Most species have a female in charge, you know, and the males must fight – often to the death – in order to secure their position at her side. The most coveted, the most lucrative, and the most powerful position. It is the _female_ who is the leader; the sacred and the savior."

Hermione pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, contemplating the behavioral analysis Astoria provided her with, and turned to question its significance when the other woman waved a chartreuse glove at her.

"Never mind that," she sighed. "As I was saying, Draco did love me at one time." – Hermione grimaced, as if she could so easily forget the way she constantly had her painted lips to Draco's ear the past few days – "But clearly, that time has expired."

Hermione stopped abruptly.

"What?"

The word left her lips before she'd given them permission to, and while she desperately wanted to take it back, to keep it close to her and reflect a cool and collected demeaner, it was too late. Astoria's sage glance glinted.

"Yes," she muttered, directly Hermione back toward the Manor. "Penny," she began, "I like you, or I think I would if we were ever to see each other as more than competition. I could be an ally, I believe, and I presume a woman in your position in this godforsaken house could use one."

Hermione averted her gaze lest the woman believe she had more to worry about than simply being the newest occupant of the estate and newest person of interest to the Death Eater's; no more than that, and definitely not a secret agent with more on the line than her pretty, clever head.

"I - " She cleared her throat, coughing once into the starry night. "I would like that, too."

Astoria smirked, "Good." Then, she lifted her gaze to the constellations twinkling above them in the deep blue sky. "He did love me once," she said, and this time, Hermione did not violently shudder at the information. "Not anymore," she added as Hermione had expected she would. Then, Astoria's green eyes fell on Hermione with a knowing smile. "I believe his affection has shifted."

Hermione swallowed.

"Oh?" She stated, trying to pass off the remark with as much nonchalance as she could muster.

Astoria, rightfully, choked on a bout of muted laughter. Her small frame shook under her black coat before stilling and turning to face Hermione with a sudden shift in demeanor. Astoria's shoulders tensed; her feet planted firmly before Hermione and blocked her pathway back to the warm, firelit Manor.

"Promise me, Penny," she said; her eyes narrowed cruelly at Hermione, scrutinizing her every micro-expression. "Promise me."

Hermione didn't have to ask the other woman to elaborate. She knew precisely what she was asking of her because if it had been Hermione in her position, she would be asking the same thing. Hermione didn't hesitate to respond.

"I promise," she replied. Amazingly, Hermione thought she meant it as well. For once.

_Extraordinarily puzzling –_

"Good," Astoria quipped. Then, her small frame dissolved back into a relaxed state, and she looped a gloved arm through Hermione's, placing one snow-covered boot in front of another. "I have a few thoughts on how to water the gardenias," she added.

Hermione frowned, "Water the - "

"Narcissa takes excellent care of her garden, of course," Astoria said, ignoring Hermione's lack of understanding. Evidently, it was the right call. Already, she had a revelation into the actual conversation Astoria was trying to have. "I would never deign to tell her how to care for her flowers," Astoria went on. "But there are a few things I happen to know about gardenias."

"Hm," Hermione nodded. "Do tell."

Astoria grinned mischievously, "Well…"

Hermione followed along to the other woman's insight into the man she'd come to fall for despite her better judgement. She marveled at how willing Astoria was to help her overcome her fear and her resistance to give into the inevitable.

_I don't deserve it –_

_I definitely don't deserve her –_

_Pen –_

"Why are you doing this?" She pressed, cutting of Astoria's ploy as well as her own spiraling thoughts. "Why?"

Astoria sighed, though her expression was not wilted and tired. Instead, it was resolute and thoughtful, and she took Hermione's elbow between her small fist. "Don't do this to yourself," she warned. "I thought you were quite the feminist, Penny," she challenged. Hermione bit her lip. "Listen, we are both far more intelligent than others would prefer us to be, and that's what makes us as special as it does dangerous." She paused, eying Hermione pointedly. "Nonetheless, do not question what others see in you. What _he_ sees in you."

Hermione, under her piercing glare, nodded once.

There was a huff of displeasure, "What _I_ see in you."

Hermione knew it had pained Astoria to be so blunt with her and refrained from averting her gaze sheepishly at the snow beneath her feet. Instead, she kept her brown eyes focused intently on Astoria and felt a tight smile tug at the corners of her lips. She knew better than to thank the other woman; it would be wholly unappreciated and unwelcomed.

She was truly Narcissa's prodigy through and through.

Astoria let out a sharp exhale, digging for a cigarette and handing one to Hermione, then lit them both. She took a long drag before eying the glow of the sitting room with the Christmas tree around which the rest of the family sat around, laughing and drinking and enjoying the ease of the holidays.

"I believe I told Narcissa that I would play her next," she remarked with a glint in her light green eyes. "You stay here," she commanded with a flick of her wrist. "I'll see if Draco fancies a walk around the gardens," she added with a conspiratorial wink.

Hermione immediately felt her cheeks heat and fought to hide it as the dark-haired woman turned to re-enter the Manor. There were a few moments of uninterrupted silence that enveloped Hermione and she welcomed it with a sigh of content, angling her frigid face up to the night sky. The stars shown brilliantly against the black backdrop, reminding her of Draco.

The sound of snow crunching beneath heavy, uneven footsteps caused her eyes to snap open and her head to whip around. She had expected a golden glow to immerse her vision and was shocked to see a messy head of black, greasy hair instead. A cold sharp inhale rushed into her lungs and Hermione stumbled backwards, fear trickling into up her spine.

"Sirius Black," she gasped.

His mouth twisted into a cruel, suggestive smirk and Hermione's blood immediately ran cold.

"Hello love," he teased.

She reached instinctively for her hip, where her purse usually rested, but exhaled shakily under her breath when she didn't find it there. No purse. No blade. No chance in hell she was escaping the hunger in his eyes this time.

 _Fuck_ , she thought.

* * *

 **A/N -** This chapter title is from Lil Wayne's song _Uproar_ from the lines _to the unknown / only way he coming back is through his unborn / if you see what's in my bag, think I'm a drug lord / it's empty when I give it back, now where's the uproar?_


	5. Level Number Nine

**Chapter 5: Level Number Nine**

* * *

_24 December 1924_

_BELOVED BACHELOR MISSING: A REFLECTION OF HIS LIFE AND LEGACY_

_By Rita Skeeter_

_A child born to a golden pacifier was, as to be expected, awarded a gifted childhood and given the best circumstances to make a name for himself. It is no surprise to the British public that Mr. Draco Malfoy was a successful and affluent young man with an entire company – an entire empire –_

You can say that again.

_-under his thumb by his late twenties. The British public was, however, enormously shocked to learn that, unlike most people with insurmountable wealth, Mr. Malfoy was extremely humble and exceedingly amicable. It is to his parents, Mr. Lucius Malfoy and Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy nee Black, that this unusual but refreshing demeanor is attributed. Mr. Lucius Malfoy, the former head of Malfoy Company Limited, was a decorated war veteran as well, however due to the most unfortunate circumstance of losing Mr. Lucius Malfoy during the battle of Somme, not much else is known about Mr. Draco Malfoy's father._

_Conversely, ever since Mr. Draco Malfoy has been a welcomed figure in the British press, there is an abundance of information on Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy, especially after the summer that her son took a step back from the spotlight. She was famously captured by the press for nearly four uninterrupted months while her son was suspected to be working on a new project._

_Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy is as radiant and cherished as her son and it is no wonder as to where he learned his benevolent behavior from (if not from both of his parents!). The Black family has had a long standing, albeit rocky as of lately, reputation among the English aristocratic families as the most ancient and noble. Both of Mrs. Malfoy's sisters – she herself being the youngest – though, are not nearly as poised or popular as she is. She is a woman of great stature and grace, and it cannot be understated that the public is eager to see who Mr. Draco Malfoy chooses to be his intended wife and to follow in his mother's footsteps._

Ah, yes.

Who is going to be the unfortunate broad that fills Narcissa's blood-stained designer heels? Personally, my money – should I actually have any outside of the stipend provided by Draco under some ill-form of employment – would have been on Astoria, but since she seems keener to follow after Narcissa _without_ marrying her son, well…

That's not important.

What _is_ important is what Rita so casually glossed over amidst her supposedly thorough rendition of Draco's _life and legacy_. Fucking rubbish, the whole thing. As you may have guessed, there is not a lot of vital information provided that would possibly clue the British public into the kind of _life and legacy_ Draco actually left behind. As the leader of a notoriously violent and well-connected gang, there isn't much that he was involved in that was even remotely legal.

What Rita failed to investigate, or even bother to elaborate on, was the summer that Draco retreated from the public eye. It was decidedly _not_ to take an ostentatious holiday in the sun. But, of course, that is probably a story best saved for another time.

After all, I'm getting ahead of myself.

In order to explain how I survived that summer – and what it did to my resolve – then I need to go back to the previous winter and how I survived (yet another) threat on my life.

* * *

_25 December 1921_

"What on earth are you doing out here all by yourself, love?" Sirius drawled, his yellow teeth glinting in the moonlight. "Don't you know it's dangerous for a woman to… Well," he shrugged. "To be a woman, I suppose."

Hermione's chest tightened; her pulse quickening though her body stood rigid and unmoving. Her eyes didn't leave the man staring her down. His features were sharp and precise; the blackness of his eyes was eerily focused on her and the pale of his cheekbone jutting out from his hollowed, starved face. His hunger, steeped in a chilling smile, prominent as ever; his gaze trailing down her cloaked figure with a scary intensity suggesting that he had been fasting for far too long. Starved for warmth. Starved for touch. Starved for _her_.

"I'm not your love," Hermione snapped, the words leaving her mouth and summoning a hidden lick of courage she wasn't sure she currently contained.

Black chuckled, stepping closer to her. "No," he taunted. "I suppose you are not, though I must say I'm _thrilled_ that you are still as mouthy as I remember." He took another step forward, and in turn, Hermione stepped back, colliding with the brick wall beside the door with which Astoria disappeared through.

The thought that Draco might appear any moment now nudged her out of her catatonic state, and Hemione balled her gloved hands into fists at her side. All she had to do was bade her time. She could do that. Heaven knows she's had to do it before. This time, though, she was less certain whether or not Draco would make it in time.

To prove her point, Sirius Black lurched forward.

His dirty, grimy hands reached for her and she narrowly avoided his grasp, stumbling off the path and into the blanket of snow. Her feet sank through the cloud, depositing her on her side and soaking her in the cold, white ground. It swallowed her up, making it immensely difficult for her to get up and run.

Hermione's heart thudded in her chest, "You don't want to do this," she said, scrambling to her knees and meeting his hooded gaze. "Narcissa," she breathed, remembering Draco mentioning her importance in Black's precarious position. "Narcissa wouldn't want you to – Uh – Hurt the family, and – Err - "

"Family?" Black spat. "What fucking family? The one who cast me and my brother aside? Like we were nothing; _less_ than nothing. The one who blamed me – _framed_ me – for murder I didn't commit? As if I were some deranged animal that needed to be punished, caged, put down." He seethed.

Hermione realized, too late, the misstep she'd taken.

"You don't understand, child," Black went on. "You could _never_ understand what they put me through, what they continue to put me through. They think they're so special, so gifted, and perhaps they are. Fuck knows Draco is immersed in gold, but Narcissa? She forgets her place."

He inhaled and exhaled heavily, glaring down at her and inching toward her all the same.

"Narcissa was the shining star of the family," he said. "She was the one to return the Black's to a pedestal of nobility; she provided her parents with a much-needed future. A promise. A death wish, though, all the same. That fucking scum, that fucking pathetic excuse for a man, gave her everything she needed to turn the tables back for her family. But at what cost?" He huffed, fuming. "At what cost, hm? A life, child. A _life_. She traded it willingly, of course, because it was not hers. It was not _hers_ , and yet she felt it was hers to give."

Black looked at her, tilting his head with an angle that sent a shiver up her spine. "You have no idea the family you have so easily enveloped yourself in." He told her, taunting her with information he clearly had no plan to clarify. "Did you ever wonder how the Malfoy's rose to their wealth and power? Did you ever stop to think about what they call themselves? The _Death Eater's_ ," he sneered, "is not a name born from fair negotiations, and you would be unclever to presume it came at the price of anything less than bloodshed."

She blinked.

"I would not think you unclever, hm?" He choked on a throaty laugh, "And they call _me_ a murderer."

Hermione swallowed, watching his blown-out pupils slowly constrict and focus once again on her. He was quick; impossibly quicker than one would expect of a starved, bedraggled, deranged man. Her hand thrust out, encasing him in a fistful of snow as she struggled to her knees and to her feet. A weight tugged her back down into the depth of white, bringing her to the mercy of Draco's timed rescue; should that still be the case for her.

She screamed, wailing as she blindly kicked at his hands. They made their way up her body; wrapped tightly around her ankle, nails digging into the silky fabric and clawing at her calves, thighs, hips.

"You," Black seethed, pressing his hips into hers and forcing her hands above her head. "You will be the price my power-hungry cousin must pay."

Hermione bowed her spine, trying to wriggle free of his impenetrable grip. Trying, and failing. "Black," she choked out. "Sirius Black. You don't – I'm not – You don't want me. I'm nothing."

Anger flashed behind his black eyes, and his lips parted, his tongue flicking across them. "It is not _you_ that I want. You are right, you are nothing. Nothing special, certainly, and not worth looking at much less," he paused to grimace, "other things."

Fear ripped through her; she thought his want – his _hunger_ – was for her. To claim her and to own her. But she had been wrong to presume that her body would be enough to satiate his hunger. Hermione had been so, so very wrong. It was not her body that he craved, but her blood. All of it. Tainting the snow for Draco to see come the morning light.

Hermione felt panic bubbling in her veins and willed it to give her strength; strength to fight back. _Fight back_.

Black shifted to grip her wrists with one, dirty hand. With the other, he took her breath between his fingers, roughly pressing them deeper and deeper into the delicate skin of her throat. Burying her in the frostbitten snow and robbing her of her clear mind. Her one – unbelievably fragile – strength.

There were stars. The night sky behind his ebony, greasy hair gleamed. It swarmed her vision with its tints of sparkling silver stark against the dark backdrop of the universe. Her vision blurred and the silver fractured and splintered.

It had been a long time – in the back of her mind, Hermione heard a voice whisper that it had been too long of a time – since she took a full breath but when she did, the silver that flashed before her eyes was more mesmerizing than before. It trapped her, pulled her in, and then was gone.

Hermione blinked, inhaling a shaky breath. She found it difficult to bring herself upright and was forced to survey her surroundings from where she lay in the freezing blanket of snow.

"What the _fuck_ did I tell you?" Came the feral, enraged voice of Draco. He loomed over Black, the other man's musty coat tangled in his fist. "I can only give you so many chances at life, Black."

"You think this is life?" Black responded, shoving Draco back. "You think I am living, do you? You are more delusional, more ruthless, than your father and mother combined, cousin. It may bring you power and allow you to reach for the stars after which you are named, but do not forget that the higher you climb, the farther you fall… and you _will_ fall."

Draco spat at the feet of the other man, his lips curling angrily. "Is that meant to intimidate me?" His deft fingers curled into fists moments before one of them swung out at lightning speed, imitating that of a snake. It connected with Black's jaw squarely, causing him to stumble back and spit out blood. "Get the fuck out of here before I decide I don't care what Mother thinks of having your blood on my conscience."

"Is _that_ meant to intimidate me?" Black countered, narrowing his eyes but laughing through the threat. He raised his hands, taunting Draco, and cackled, "You want my blood, cousin? Come get it, then."

A shaky breath rattled through Hermione's lungs, tearing her ribs apart, and there a moment. A moment of silence, of reprieve, where time seemed to stop, and then –

Draco advanced.

It was as if something in him shifted; part of him, she could see from the blank expression, shut down while another part of him, evident in the tension in his muscles, came to life. He was a well-oiled machine, throwing punch and punch at Black. Hardly a jab that left his coiled body did not strike its intended target without a sickening crunch following it.

"Oh, fuck," cursed a new voice, the sentiment leaving with a gasp. "Fuck, Draco." It was Theo. He come up to Draco – who was bent over Black in the snow, the two of them tumbling and exchanging elbows and grunts spattered in blood – and tugged at his mate's coat, "Hey, Draco, think of Narcissa. She wouldn't want - "

"Penny," he growled, swatting away Theo's grasping hands. The other boy's blue eyes glinted. "Penny," Draco repeated, sparing a glance in her direction and indicating toward Theo with a lowered chin. "He – Can you - "

"Yes," Theo responded immediately, "Of course."

A moment later, Hermione's visions swarmed with icy blue tainted with wisps of fury and disapproval. At who, she wasn't sure. Her? Likely. Draco? Black? Considerably less so, though she wasn't entirely sure the possibility could be altogether ruled out.

"Penny," Theo murmured, bending to peer at her. The longer strands of his black hair fell from their slicked back state to land precariously onto his forehead. He swept them away impatiently. His eyes flickered down her face, landing on her throat. "Fuck," he choked.

She was sure what he saw mirrored how horribly she ached.

" _Draco_ ," the shrill, identifiable voice of Narcissa screamed. Her heels clacked loudly against the stone path as she barreled toward him and Black. The two of them finally pulled apart at her furious gaze. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Not waiting for a response, she turned to Black. "What the fuck are you _doing_ here?"

Black coughed, spitting blood at Narcissa's feet, and quipped, "It's Christmas, Cissy, surely you're not cold enough to deny a man time with his family on such a day." He wiped at the blood running down his nose, trickling into his mouth, and winced. Hermione was certain from its crooked angle that his nose had been broken in not one, but two places. "Or," he added, "Am I to understand that would rather carry on in your enormous, _warm_ home without my ghost around to haunt you? To remind you of the choices you made once upon a time."

Her lips twitched into a grimace before flattening back into a thin line. "Leave," she spat. "Leave now, and we'll forget all of this happened."

"Like hell we will," Draco shot back, but Narcissa's arm whipped out to brace against his chest, pushing him behind her and away from Black. "He needs to _pay_ for what he did," Draco seethed.

Narcissa glared at him, "My darling son," she said, the words dripping with venom. "Don't do anything - "

A booming sound echoed through the night, silencing them all with its finality. Draco stood tall with one arm extended toward Black, and a revolver smoking from the end of his bloodied and bruised hand. Hermione, leaning heavily on Theo as he helped her to her feet, slinging an arm around her waist to steady her, gaped.

Black's eyes dropped to his chest, waiting for the blood to spurt and soak his linen shirt. Instead, nothing came. Narcissa's manicured hands wrapped around the top of the barrel of the gun; she had managed to do the impossible and match her son's swiftness – beat it, even – and sent the bullet spiraling into the night rather than into Black's empty, cavernous heart.

"Leave," she repeated, shooting a warning look at the man.

* * *

"What the bloody hell happened?" Astoria gasped, rising from her armchair.

Draco tightened his grip on Hermione's waist, "Don't," he warned. "Don't act like you don't know." He reluctantly let go of Hermione, helping her sink between the soft velvet cushions before rounding on Astoria with furious, stormy eyes. "You are a spiteful bitch, you know that, don't you?"

Astoria blinked. Her body language registering the accusation in his tone and tensing, prepared to engage in the fight. "What the fuck are you talking about?" She demanded, rouge lips grimacing.

"Sirius Black," Narcissa supplied, stepping between the two of them to take up a cigarette and light it. She exhaled several rings of smoke, then added, "He was here." Then, she nodded to Draco as evidence, "There was a bit of a fight. Bloody fucking idiots," she said, knocking back a glass full of dark, spiced liquid.

"Black," Astoria repeated, tasting the name on her venomous tongue. Her green eyes flared, sparking with fury as she directed her attention back to the blond towering over her. "You think _I_ had something to do with him? That I – What? – _invited_ him here?" Her gaze flickered to Hermione and settled on the dark marks coloring her neck. She visibly swallowed, then gasped at Draco. "You think I set this up, don't you?"

"I certainly wouldn't put it past your treacherous mind to come up with something as vile as this for vengeance." He replied coldly.

"Fuck you," Astoria snapped.

She turned swiftly from Draco and stepped toward Hermione, though he slid to block her path. "Move," she commanded. When he didn't budge, she looked past him to meet Hermione's brown eyes. "Penny," she said. "You know I would never do that to you. To him. Think about it," she demanded, too proud to openly beg. " _Think_."

Hermione cleared her throat, finding her voice rasp and hollow. "Draco," she said, her eyes flickering up from Astoria's dilated jewel-toned ones to meet his bloodshot slate ones. He sighed heavily, then inched out of Astoria's path just enough to let her kneel beside the chair Hermione sat in.

"You're fine," she said drily, brushing her fingers gingerly against Hermione's swollen throat.

From behind them, Theo scoffed. "She's clearly not,"

"She _is_ ," Astoria insisted. Her lips quirked upwards momentarily before settling back into their usual taunting smirk. "You are." She told Hermione firmly. "You're fine. You're strong. You're resilient." Astoria rocked back on her heels and stood, dusting off her dress and joining Narcissa for a smoke, filling a glass and handing it to Hermione. "Drink this," she instructed.

Hermione felt Draco's eyes boring into her. For what it's worth, she knew that the two of them – she and Astoria – were two sides of the same coin, and in the short time they had known each other, Hermione knew with absolute certainty that the other could be trusted. They were infallibly similar.

She imagined that in another life, had she been born to a different family with different ambitions, she would be the same dangerous, demanding, brilliant woman that Astoria was. No, she corrected herself, they did not have different ambitions. Had Hermione not gone into the academy and yearned to roam the streets with a glint of silver on her breast with the intention to bring change about the dirty streets of London? Was that any different than what Astoria did? What _any_ of the Death Eater's did?

Sure, their methods for going about the change – like buying entire warehouse-loads of opium and selling it abroad rather than simply arresting the maker to prevent it circulating about their own streets – was not what she had been taught was right. Then again… did that necessarily make them wrong?

Did it make them any less than her?

No, she ruled.

Hermione took the proffered glass with a hint of a smile tugging at her cracked lips, nodding her understanding to the woman. Her silent gratitude. Draco's eyes never left hers as she tipped back the expensive glass and emptied the contents. The spiced liquid burned her throat, searing against the nerves lining it and bringing about a new, welcomed sensation of numbness.

Her eyes met Astoria's and saw the haunting look in her eyes and wondered if Astoria had known what Hermione needed from her own experience.

_You're fine –_

_You're strong –_

_You're resilient –_

"Another one?" Astoria asked, taking the glass from Hermione's gentle grasp and refilling it. "A couple more will help. Blur the images," she whispered in her ear, bending to place the glass in her hands and give them a firm squeeze. "Don't go all soft on me, now, Penny. I have high expectations for you still." She winked.

Hermione's mouth curved into a genuine smile at that, and pushed the other woman back, coming to her feet. Draco immediately reached out to wrap his strong, bruised hands around her waist, but she batted him away as well. "Bloody hell, Draco, I don't need a babysitter. I can do it myself." When he grunted and back away, granting her the space she asked for, Hermione sent a quick wink over her shoulder to Astoria, who lifted her chin minutely.

"So," Pansy said, clearing her throat and reminding Hermione of the other half of the family who had stayed in the Manor. "Would I be correct in presuming Sirius Black no longer has to wonder if hell has a special place in its fiery depths for him?"

Draco shifted, but Narcissa spoke up before he could. "No," she told Pansy and the others watching with wide eyes. "He lives to inhale another smog-filled breath."

"For now," Draco grumbled under his breath so low that only Hermione and Theo – standing on the other side of him – caught it. They exchanged a wary glance, but he tilted his head toward the other side of the room where the corridor led to the grand staircase. She nodded, then lifted her gaze to analyze the sharp angle of Draco's jaw.

"Draco," Hermione murmured, nudging him gently. His head bent down to take her in; his darkened, hooded eyes softened immediately to a bright silver. "Let's go,"

* * *

Hermione rummaged through the cabinets underneath the sink, knowing that she would find a miniature medical kit suitable for patching him up. She carried the box back into his bedroom and settled it on the nightstand, searching through its contents for alcohol and gauze, then gestured for Draco to sit on the bed.

He stripped off his cold, wet coat and shirts until his chest was bare. "Have you ever done this before?" He asked, motioning to the array of bandages and sutures.

"More or less," she taunted with a smirk, pulling her lower lip in between her teeth.

His eyes gleamed, "You're not going to butcher me, are you Penny? I don't think the papers would take too kindly to you scarring my face." Draco teased, though from the uneven rising and falling of his chest, Hermione could see that he was anxious.

"I won't scar you," she reassured him gently. "I don't even need to touch that stuff," she nodded to the glinting silver in the kit as she assessed the gash on his cheekbone. "The cut isn't that deep. It won't need sutures, so I'll just apply a bit of skin glue and tape it up. Let your body do its magic to repair the damage," she said.

He didn't say anything else, and so Hermione took a deep breath and steadied herself, focusing on the task at hand. She was extremely talented at that; prioritizing and training her thoughts not to sway from whatever it was her body needed to do. Which, at the moment, was mend Draco's bloodied and bruised body. Hermione gritted her teeth and got to work.

She dampened a cloth and ran it along his split knuckles, marveling at how Draco didn't even flinch when the warm, soothing water turned to cold, stinging alcohol. She tediously wrapped his hands in clean gauze, holding her breath as she trailed her fingers over the roughness of his fingertips. She finished her doctoring of his hands and flickered her eyes up to meet his, then swallowed as she reached out to swipe away loose, sweat-slicked strands of his translucent, golden hair.

His bandaged hand wrapped around her wrist, but none of the signature force or vehemence that was usually reserved for her was present. His grey eyes lowered and blinked at his fingers closed around her raised wrist as if he didn't recognize his own hand. As if it had moved without his consent.

He swallowed, the bob in his throat bouncing animatedly.

"Ask me," he rasped.

Hermione blinked. Her voice caught in the back of her sore throat and she felt the familiar strain of her muscles anxiously awaiting his touch; her pulse racing and buzzing with anticipation.

"I know you're dying to," Draco went on. "I know you. I know that clever mind of yours has no shy of a million questions plaguing your thoughts. I know that one of them is haunting you, cursing you for standing so close to me," he told her. "So, go on then. Ask me."

Her breath hitched, unhelpfully relaying the congruence of his observation. "What do you want me to ask you?" She countered, raising a brow in a small act of defiance. However, he seemed genuinely pleased by her resistance to follow normality and unwrapped his fingers from around her wrist, clasping them in his lap.

"You've seen who I am," he stated. His eyes – always an indication of the mood his body language failed to convey – darkened as the truth of his words echoed in the depths of her thoughts. "You've seen what I'm capable of. I've seen your taste in literature, Penny, and I can assure I am not a suitable husband. I am no Mr. Darcy and certainly no John Brooke."

Hermione sighed, "You think I resemble Meg most of all of the March sisters?" She pressed, dubiously. "I would think, Draco, that you would know better than anyone that she is the least of them that I would compare myself to, if anything." Her tone was light, reprimanding but still playful.

To her utter delight, he pursued the witticism. "That is true," he breathed. "Your temper and stubborn personality are far closer to that of Jo. Still, independence and strong-will aside since we do not live in the 19th century any longer, I would like to think that a woman like you, Penny – a romantic like you – would aspire to marriage, children, a _normal_ life."

"There are more important things in life, to me," she clarified with a careful brush of her thumb against his newly bandaged cheekbone.

"Such as?" He implored.

Hermione took her time, inhaling and exhaling slowly. "Trust," she murmured. "Knowledge," she stated, stepping closer to the bed so that her knees collided with the frame and secured her firmly between his thighs. "Family," she whispered; a nearly inaudible admission of the heart.

"Hm," Draco uttered. "All themes of fairytales still, are they not? I am not a prince, Penny. I am not good for you. I will never be good for you," he swallowed visibly, practically choking on the confession. "I regret introducing you to this life. To my life." He shut his eyes for a long moment, then snapped them open to regard her with renewed intensity. "This is not a fairytale, Penny. I am not your prince, and I will not save you. I've never known how to give," his nails dug into the bone of her hip. "Only take. Only ever take."

"You give yourself far too much credit if you believe yourself the villain," Hermione replied tautly. "And you give me far too little if you believe me to be a simple damsel in distress. I am not a woman waiting to be rescued," she informed him.

"No," he said, his split lip quirking into a telling smirk. "You are definitely not that,"

Then, Hermione took a shallow breath, steeling herself for the upcoming tumble of words straining against her swollen throat, eager to come out despite what it meant for her subsequent fate. "I am, however, suffering," she whispered, "without you, Draco."

His typical cold exterior gave way to pure reaction and she luxuriated in it; his fingers digging into the silky fabric of her dress and his lips parting to allow a sharp hiss to escape. "Pen," he rasped. "Ask me." His chest puffed, stretching, reaching, yearning toward hers. Hermione peered into the silvery hue of his eyes, falling hopelessly for its glimmer and promise.

"Why me?"

He shook his head. "No," Draco panted. "That's not it."

Hermione fought the urge to flee. To leave this godforsaken Manor behind and run for the hills. To crawl back to Shacklebolt with her beaten and ruined body and mind and ask – _demand_ – a reassignment. To beg for his forgiveness and lament ever having met Mr. Draco Malfoy and his enigmatic, deplorable gang.

But then she silently condemned herself.

Because she didn't wish that at all. Not anymore. In nearly two years of deep undercover work meant for _the_ _good of the public_ she had never had the pleasure of hearing from her employers and supposed protectors. They clearly didn't value her. Trust her.

The Death Eater's did – and more importantly, Draco did.

She was sure of it. So certain that she was willing to put her own life on the line.

Hermione did not want to flee. She did not want to run _from_ the perils of the Manor and its secrets and its hoard of rebels and criminals. She wanted to run _toward_ it and the people she had come to call her family. To chatty breakfasts with Theo, mirrored gazes shared with Astoria, aloof and oddly proud sentiments from Narcissa, and – above all and despite her best effort to avoid it – to quiet moments in Draco's embrace with his lips pressed firmly against hers; the ache and the burn of their shared breath.

There was something in him. Something dangerous and haunting, still, but something else. There was something that she was absolutely positive that no one else had ever had the privilege of seeing: his _vulnerability_. Not even Theo, she imagined, had seen him like this; leaning toward her as if she was his sun and he a lonely planet trapped, encircling her for all eternity.

Little did he know, though, that he was the glorious, golden sun and she but a modest, irreparably _fucked_ planet in his outer rim.

Draco kept Hermione in his orbit.

She tried. God knows she tried to resist his charismatic gravitation and their devastating energy, but every time she thought she was free, he pulled her back to him. Every _fucking_ time. It was like something so horribly tragic and comedic all in one, that she imagined even Shakespeare himself could not have written a story comparable to theirs.

There was a string, attached to both of them by the fates, that had no doubt been spun and woven to deliver them precisely to this moment and this time. Hermione was aware that their meeting was under no normal circumstances, and that even _one_ decision along the way could have brought them to very different places in their lives. The turmoil within her churned unhappily, willing the burning sensation in her lower abdomen to find a way to release itself.

To release her.

Hermione could not have, in her wildest imagination, dreamed Draco Malfoy into her life, yet she knew without absolute certainty that from this moment forward there was no other option for her. It would be beside Draco, or not at all. With him, and never without. If he was to rule his evil empire from his throne in the pits of hell, then she would gladly join him.

There was no longer the chance to guide him toward the light – and any foolish belief on her part that any part of her own soul was worth saving dissolved into ash – and she accepted that.

She accepted _him_.

The universe was cruel for delivering her to him as Miss Penelope Clearwater, but until she could find a way to cross that bridge without it burning and drowning her in the process, but she would orbit him just the same because if Hermione Granger was sure of one thing, it was that Draco Malfoy was her destiny.

"Ask me," Draco implored with a tone of finality.

Hermione didn't hesitate to give him what he had been waiting for, "Why you?" She whispered, arching a brow. His chin dipped slightly – not a nod, but close enough to one with the lack of space between them now.

She felt his breath on her neck as her forehead fell against his. "Why me?" He croaked, his arms wrapping around her waist to pull her chest closer to his. Ever closer. Never close enough.

"I don't know," she lied effortlessly. He sighed. His hold on her loosened infinitesimally and it drove her mad, igniting a flame inside of her. "I want you." She told him, trailing her fingers along his jawline. "I want to call you mine."

"I hope you never live to regret the day you say that." Draco murmured against her lips.

 _Me fucking too_ , she thought.

* * *

The air around them stirred, buzzing with electricity and taking with it something deep inside of her, suffocating her and robbing her of every last gasp of air in her lungs. It was a vacuum. Space itself – existing in an abyss of nothing but always taking, and taking, and taking. The moment she felt her cavernous lungs reach desperately for air, she inhaled and found liberation against Draco's lips.

When Draco kissed her, it was unlike any other time.

Hermione had imagined this, imagined him, imagined the taste of his lips on hers more times than she could count. He was the sun, gold and glorious and burning. The heat of his fingertips on her skin enough to draw her perilously close to him, closer, closer, _closer_. The flick of his tongue along her bottom lip, demanding entry, searing and numbing, indulging her in her fantasies of his tongue elsewhere and bringing her closer, closer, _closer_.

But it was not how she imagined it.

Perhaps, _she_ was the sun after all – It was her who would stand to burn him to ashes in the end, was it not? Draco pulled her closer to him until she fell helplessly on top of him, burrowing them in her curls; he gently turned her over again until he was fixed above her, and he began worshipping her in small touches and soft kisses like the devoted, spellbound planet he was.

Hermione had imagined Draco would singe her, drowning her in the powerlessness of needing him. Instead, he was sweet in a way; far sweeter than she had ever witnessed of him. As sweet as an emerging breath. A gasp after near drowning. As sweet as life renewed. All of which she was unfortunate enough to have been privy to at the mercy of his hand, from wanting him and needing him closer.

Ever closer.

Never close enough.

Draco was saccharine, melting on her tongue. The longing, the _burning_ , was still there between them, and she didn't expect it to dissipate any time soon for what true passion could ever only be _sweet_? She was not a fool; No, Hermione Granger had always been a clever girl. Sometimes too clever. She knew this watermelon sugar high was not likely to last, not likely to ever show its face again, but she reveled in it all the same.

"Penny," Draco choked, as if the word himself was a prayer, the only thing that could possibly save his soul; save _him_.

It snapped her out of her daydreamy haze and sugar high. _Penny_ , she repeated internally as his lips slid from her lips to her jaw, then ear, leaving soft touches – barely kisses at all – along the way. Hermione coughed, tasting sour and poison on her tongue. This wasn't right; she wasn't right. This couldn't happen… or could it?

Her mission hardly seemed worth it anymore. Shacklebolt and Fudge had not once tried to contact her or check up on her. Even when Slughorn had stopped by, he had not once mentioned a frizzy-haired brunette or deigned to ask about her employment in the household. For all intents and purposes, Hermione could have been shot that very first night and buried beneath Narcissa's gardenias and they would have never known different. _How dare they?_ She thought vehemently.

After all that she'd sacrificed. After all that she'd been through. They never appreciated her, valued her, or trusted her and she could see that now. Hermione tasted copper on her tongue and realized that in her quiet rage she had bitten her lip, piercing the skin.

Draco pulled back, tasting the copper on his tongue as well and eyed her cautiously.

"Penny?" He blinked, his grey eyes surveying her face with genuine concern. His expression was open and vulnerable; unlike the usual cold and calculated stern face he wore. Hermione flicked her tongue over her bottom lip, savoring the salty taste of realization and pulled him back to her.

"Don't," she murmured against his lips, a desperate supplication as their breaths leapt apart for a moment. "Don't do that. Don't say my name like it's a prayer, like it's all you ever wanted, and don't," she warned, running her hands through the short strands at the nape of his neck. "Don't kiss me and touch me with any kindness if you don't mean it."

In answer, Draco dipped his head and placed gentle kisses against the soreness of her throat; his fingers circling the dark marks on her windpipe. "I'm sorry," he murmured against her fragile skin. "I am so, so sorry. I never meant for you to get hurt, to get involved in this business – this _life_ – but I am sorry, Penny, because now that you're here I can't let you go." A forced swallow. "I wish I was strong enough to let you go but I'm not. I'm not strong enough, Pen. I want you. No, fuck. I _need_ you."

"Then have me," she whispered, taking his face between her hands and lifting it to meet his slate, clouded gaze. "Have me, Draco."

The obvious torment behind his grey eyes waged on in a dark, troubling storm of want and longing and fear. Hermione knew her own brown, teary eyes mirrored his; torn and _starved_. The hunger won – as it always did. His hands gripped her waist, tugging her down so that her hips collided with his, and he slowly lifted her dress, dragging the silky soft material up her body, leaving sparks where his fingertips grazed her ribs.

"Are you sure?" He whispered against her pantyhose, flicking his tongue against the slickened material and wetting it, soaking it, more than she already had.

"Yes," she said, choking on the word as it tore through her. Her hands fisting the sheets. "Yes. I want this. I want you."

Draco nipped at the thin fabric, tearing it from her aching, burning body and depositing it carelessly on the floor as he had done with her dress. The lacy, flimsy bralette she wore was next to go. It slipped from her shoulders, leaving her breasts to shiver momentarily before Draco replaced its material with his hands.

Her back arched, reaching toward him to destroy the distance that cursed the space between them. Hermione sat up, wrapping one hand around his neck to steady herself, knowing that he would never let her fall, never let her go, and slid the other hand down his torso. He shivered as she did at the touch and violently shuddered, a hiss emanating from his lips as her fingers closed around the bulge of his already hardened cock in his trousers.

"Mine," she murmured possessively in his ear. "You belong to no one else, Draco Malfoy, I am yours and you are _mine_."

"Always," he replied, his voice rasping and straining as he gritted his teeth; her hands quickly ridding them of the only cursed thing between them and elation – of the high and the _need_ and closer, closer, _closer_. "It was always you," he told her, lowering her back onto the mattress and swinging her legs above his shoulders. "It was always us. Extraordinarily puzzling and undeniably - "

He paused, grunting as he bent lower, his fingers sliding against her velvet-smooth slickness. Hermione bit back a moan and confessed, "Inevitable." His head snapped up and their eyes met – some of the longer strands of his pale golden hair falling onto his sweat-covered forehead; his lips parted in an inaudible agreement, a _prayer_ – and then he slipped two fingers deep inside of her.

There was a familiar need burning in her that coiled and coiled and begged for release. Her legs quivered as her thighs reflexively tightening, constricting his hold on her. The absence of his hold on her sent chills up her spine despite the stifling heat of his body pressed against hers, and she came undone not long after his fingers were replaced by his mouth.

"I need you," he whispered in her ear, pressing a kiss to her cheek and then to her lips; she tasted the salty victory of her release on him and savored it. "I always needed you," Draco said, pulling her legs over his shoulders once again and nearly bending her in half.

Hermione hummed, every muscle in her body reeling and tensing, ready to coil and coil again as his cock throbbed against her slit. The anticipation was killing her, slow and relentless torture, and she tasted strawberry on his lips this time, drowning in the saccharine sweetness.

"I'm here," she swore to him, lost in the delirium of him filling her, completely and gradually until she felt so full that she wondered if she had not always been starved before him. "Have me, Draco, because I'm yours and you are mine."

Hands tangled in her hair. Sweat dripping down his chest and onto hers, mixing with her own expiration as if it had never known how to be apart. Sweet murmurs of promises and _yesyesDraco – thereyesyes – fuckme –_ and closer, closer, _closer_ that was followed by a release so blinding and so euphoric that it suddenly occurred to her that perhaps they were both the sun. Burning and shining and colliding until there was nothing left of them, until destruction was –

 _Inevitable_.

* * *

A blinding light invaded the room, stirring Hermione from the abyss of sleep and causing her to blink back the sunlight and survey her surroundings. Swiping at her groggy, heavy lids, she craned her neck – still sore, but miraculously less so than before – and smiled at the beautiful blond god beside her. His limbs were tangled between hers and it took several long minutes of meticulous and quiet maneuvering to free herself from his embrace. Another smile crept up her lips at the thought of what brought them to this circumstance.

Hermione reached out to brush the translucent hairs away from his closed eyes, marveling at the tiny silvery hairs resting against his cheekbones but stopped herself at the last second. Deciding it was best not to wake him yet, she crept silently out of the bedroom with one of his oxfords draped over her.

Her head was clear, but her throat was still sore, and so she wandered towards the kitchen with the intent to convince Dobby to find a searing glass of whiskey for her. Instead, she was greeted by the sight of a petite brunette sitting on one of the kitchen counters, kicking her bare legs back and forth as she sipped at her tea and flipped lazily at a newspaper.

"Astoria," Hermione blinked, startled.

The other woman smirked, her sage eyes trailing down Hermione's choice of attire. "Good morning," she taunted, lifting the tea to her lips. "Sleep well?"

"I - "

"There's no need to lie or hide with me, Penny." She reminded her primly. "We've been over this, haven't we?" She chuckled under her breath and hopped gracefully down from the counter without spilling any of the hot liquid on her pretty white dress. "I take it you're here for more medication?"

Hermione eyed the bottle Astoria produced from one of the cabinets and took is with a grateful nod, "Yes." She said, pouring herself a glass and downing it quickly, welcoming the pain and subsequent pleasure of the numbing liquid. "Why are you awake so early?"

Astoria shrugged, not meeting Hermione's eye.

"Is it - " She paused, frowning. "Is it because me?" Suddenly, Hermione felt a rush of guilt wash over her. She had taken the other woman's plead for granted and chose to believe her when she said that Draco's moving on did not bother her, and that she and Hermione should be _friends_. But did she mean it? The dark circles prominent under her jewel-toned eyes despite the heavy makeup proved otherwise. "I thought you said - "

"I meant what I said," Astoria cut in, exasperated. "It's not about Draco. It's not even about you – I just – I couldn't sleep, that's all. I was restless. Had a lot on my mind." She quipped, flicking a speck of dust that dared to sit on her shoulder. "I told you, Penny, don't do that to yourself. Us women need to band together," she challenged. Hermione exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "I know you are a clever and capable woman, but there is still so much you have to learn if you want to be part of this family, this life – _Draco's_ life."

She paused, sighing. "I'm his ex, I would know."

Hermione bit her lip, remembering something cold and unforgiving that had been whispered in her ear. _You will be the price my power-hungry cousin must pay._ She gasped, her eyes widening in horror. "Astoria," she breathed tentatively. "Astoria - " She began but was cut off with a sharp glare.

"Don't," she warned.

"But - " Hermione fought the bile rising in her throat and stepped toward the other woman, holding onto her wrist and holding her in place. Her other hand trailed softly up her forearm, comforting her as best as she knew how with the stale air between them and the wild look in Astoria's green eyes. "What did he do to you?" She whispered.

Astoria blinked, tilting her chin upward. Defiantly. Proudly. "It is what he did _not_ do that matters," she replied. "He did not bend me, Penny, and he did not break me." She paused, exhaling a shaky breath and meeting Hermione's worried gaze. "Remember what I told you? You are strong. You will come back from this. You will make him _pay_."

"What about you?" Hermione insisted, "Why hasn't he paid for what he did to you?"

"Because no one knows what he did to me," Astoria sniffed, "and I won't let you tell them. I won't have it." Hermione opened her mouth to argue shut it as Astoria shot her another piercing glare. "They will look at me like I'm weak, like I'm damaged, like I'm _broken_. Then, he will win."

"Astoria," Hermione said, gripping her hand tightly between her own. "That's not - "

"No, Penny." She scolded. Then, the tension in her delicate shoulders wilted and she leaned into Hermione's touch, spent from the confession. Hermione held onto her tightly and brushed her ebony hair, soothing her and comforting her. "I am sorry, though," Astoria went on quietly. "If I _had_ said something, then he probably wouldn't have – He wouldn't have figured out that his violence and torment of Draco needed escalating. I'm sorry that my silence resulted in an attempt on your life."

"Don't be sorry," Hermione beseeched, shaking her head. "Don't ever apologize for what happened – for what he did to you – and how you reacted. It was a survival technique," she said. "Besides, as you keep on reminding me, we'll be fine."

"Yes," Astoria sighed. "We will be."

* * *

"You know," Astoria said, reaching for a Welsh cake, "I never thought I would say this, but I miss Daphne."

Theo, pulling the plate of cakes closer to him, shot her a conspiratorial smirk, "Well, Satan, you're always welcome to join her. I'm sure those Scottish brutes could stand to teach you a few things of importance," he taunted.

"Unlikely," Astoria snapped back. "In any case, Theodore, you aren't getting rid of me that easily."

"Delightful," he remarked drily.

Hermione, sitting between the two of them, snatched a couple of cakes from Theo and handed them to Astoria with a tired sigh. She often felt like the withering mother, a widow even, raising two hellish teenagers when she spent much time around them.

"I would love to see that," Graham commented, stepping into the dining room with Marcus on his heels. "Astoria unleashed upon the Scottish nuns?" He let out a low whistle, "Bet we would make a killing off the inevitable fight," They took their seats opposite Hermione and on either side of Blaise, who immediately backhanded Marcus in the stomach.

"What the fuck was that for?" Marcus seethed, grasping his abdomen and scowling at the other man.

Blaise arched a dark brow at him, pointedly trailing his gaze up and down Marcus' suit. "For thinking you could pull off that shade of grey this late in the season," he replied primly. "I second that motion, Astoria," he said, turning to face her and carefully selecting a biscuit to dunk in his tea – _actual_ tea this time, too – "If Daphne were here, she would reprimand Flint on his taste as well. Make him see reason,"

"Fuck off," Marcus snapped.

Hermione plopped a strawberry in her mouth and tilted her chin toward Graham, "Who would you bet on?"

"Me, obviously," Astoria scoffed. "I could take those Highlander women any day." She chewed on a cake and wiggled her brows suggestively, leaning in to whisper in Hermione's ear. "I would never speak ill of my sister, of course, but if it were _me_ having trouble up there, let's just say there wouldn't be a university left once I was done with it."

Hermione chuckled, turning her attention back to the men as they went on bickering about the two missing women. They were back in school now, their holiday break long over, and business was back to usual.

"If you missed us so much," a sickly-sweet voice trilled from the doorway, "All you had to do was say so." Pansy smirked at the gaping mouths and tucked her hand around Daphne's waist as the two of them stood beside the table, not taking a seat.

"What the bloody hell are you two doing here?" Theo said, aghast. "Shouldn't you be – I don't know – learning how to analyze Shakespeare or something?"

Daphne shrugged nonchalantly, "We already know everything there is to know about the old bastard. We're English, after all, Nott." She sniffed. "Be not afraid,"

Theo frowned, leaning back in his chair and resting an arm over the back of Hermione's, "Am I supposed to believe you think you were born great?" He countered.

Pansy arched a brow, "Perhaps," she stated. "Though, don't get your hopes up, Nott, that doesn't apply to you. Nor, I imagine," she added, her dark eyes lingering on his casual suit, "does it apply to you. Maybe if you're lucky, you will achieve greatness one day."

Theo's eyes twinkled, but it was Hermione who spoke up in his defense. She took a sip from her tea and met the two other women's gazes with a toying one of her own, "Sorry Pansy, Daphne, but Theo and I are quite busy having greatness thrust upon us today to join you with," – she paused, noticing the extremely formal gowns they wore – "whatever you two are up to today."

"Ah," Narcissa said, joining them in the room with Draco on her heels. "I'm so glad you said that Penny, as they will be accompanying Draco to another fundraiser gala today." She crossed the room to stand behind Astoria, then bent her head to whisper in her ear.

Hermione yearned to hear what she said, and she was close enough that she thought she could make most of it out, but then a cold hand slid behind her neck and caused her to nearly jump in her seat had she not trained herself to suppress those instincts.

"Hey," Draco murmured in her ear, tugging at the wayward curls at the nape of her neck, pulling them loose from her attempt at a chignon. "I hope you don't mind that you won't be the woman on my arm this afternoon."

"Or one _of_ them," she teased, her brown eyes flickering over to where Pansy and Daphne continued to berate Theo. He himself angling dutifully and respectfully away from their hushed conversation.

"It's because I trust you, you know that, don't you?" He implored, his silvery eyes dancing. Other than his eyes, his posture and expression remained stoic; rigid and cold. She nodded her understanding. Her fingers brushed across his knuckles behind her head before dropping back into her lap, and he pulled away, shoving his hands in his pockets.

They were careful to keep their intimacy at a minimum in the company of others. For one thing, it was how Draco operated with maintaining control over his Death Eater's and his household – he could not afford to appear weak or vulnerable even in front of them – and for another, it allowed them the habit of separation in public should anyone else decide to attack them the way Black did.

"See you tonight," she whispered, and his lips quirked up into a ghost of a smile before he turned away and clapped Theo on the back.

"Oi," Theo grunted.

He ducked swiftly as Draco aimed another harmless smack at the back of his head, then shot him a bird as he sauntered off toward Pansy and Daphne, directing them out of the room with one last glance at Hermione, winking at her.

She melted momentarily before Theo roughly dragged her focus back to the matter at hand, the task that Draco had entrusted her and Theo to take care of with the utmost discretion. "Come on, Penny," Theo chimed, elbowing her and stealing the last bit of her Welsh cake from her grasp and depositing it into his mouth. "We better get going,"

* * *

"I'm just saying," Theo drawled, stepping out of the car and opening the large door for Hermione, incapable of acting less than the perfect gentlemen in public despite his bickering with her. "If you _were_ upset about it, I would understand. Daph is a very beautiful woman."

Hermione's heels echoed against the original stonework, "and Pansy?" Theo gave her a roguish smile, opting to say nothing and Hermione shook her head at him. "You're incorrigible." She said under her breath as the two of them came up to an older woman standing behind the bar situated behind the lobby.

"Rosmerta," Theo greeted with a wide grin, dazzling the elder woman effortlessly. "How are you today?"

The woman – Rosmerta – set down a glass she'd been drying and regarded Theo warily as her gaze flickered emphatically to Hermione beside him. "I'm fine," she supplied flatly. "How can I help you Mr. Nott?"

"So formal," he reprimanded playfully, then waved a hand across Hermione's face. "Don't mind her, Rosie, she's nobody."

Hermione nodded along with the charade they'd taken up, "Just a humble assistant, ma'am, of no importance." At the bat of her lashes, meant to demonstrate her innocence, Hermione blinked up from the woman to Theo expectantly. He waved her off and flicked his wrist back toward the lobby.

"I'll be out in a minute, Penny," he said, sparing Rosmerta a conspiratorial wink, "Be a good little assistant and pick up my delivery, will you?"

Back in the car, Hermione shifted so that the bursting envelope with international stamps fell from her coat and into the box hidden underneath her seat. She filed it behind the other four and grinned at the messy handwriting, the same on all of the envelopes, and rolled her eyes at Theo as he started the car and drove off to their next destination.

"It's a wonder that anyone in the post can even read Vince's scripture," she laughed. "He should really work on that because I can't imagine Draco would take kindly to them getting misdelivered or flagged for inspection."

Theo shrugged, "It's a lost cause, Penny, not that you would know the history of it."

"Oh?" She remarked lightly, "Is that because I am but a _good little assistant_?" He glanced askance at her apparent tone of distaste and outright laughed at the disapproving twist of her mouth and the small arms folded over her chest.

However, his laugh quickly dissipated once he glanced back up at the road ahead. Hermione looked up to see what caused his mood to turn sour suddenly and groaned aloud at the sight of messy black hair and jewel-toned eyes staring them down.

"No," she grumbled. "Theo, don't - "

"Don't worry, Penny," Theo said between gritted teeth as he pulled the car over. "I'm not going to ask you to stay in the bloody car. On the contrary, actually," he huffed, reaching over her to open her door and shove her hastily out of it.

Hermione was barely able to regain her footing and rounded on him, glaring, " _Theo_ ,"

"Tell Draco I'm claiming my second voucher," he replied sternly, cutting her off.

She, however, was less inclined than her other counterpart to indulge Theo in his death wish. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" She screeched, crossing to the other side of the car as Theo hopped out and lowered his newsboy cap, the silver edge glinting. "Leave that stupid man alone," Hermione shouted.

"Listen, Penny, just _tell Draco -_ "

"No!" She fumed, her eyes darting toward the mansion at the top of the hill. "No, Theo, you have to come with me."

" _Penny_ ," he seethed, cracking his knuckles and pushing her toward the path up the hill. "You'll be fine. You have your little blade. Go over to Longbottom's – he won't do anything – and I'll meet you there." His icy blue eyes shifted from her stunned expression to Potter's defiant one. "This won't take long."

"Theo," she tried again.

" _Fucking go_."

Hermione groaned, screaming her frustration as she stomped her heels against the cobblestone and strode up the hill. Her mind was still reeling – her pulse still racing – by the time she made it to the house and knocked on the door.

Neville Longbottom opened it slightly then, seeing her disastrous curls in the small space, closed it to unlatch the locks and grant her entry into the foyer. The first thing Hermione perceived was the abundant scent of roses wafting from him, and the impeccably stylish yet thoughtful black suit stretching across his gangly limbs.

She was so startled by his uncharacteristic posh demeanor that she failed to notice the screeching of tires and the loud announcement of police until it was too late. Longbottom's eyes widened in horror, mirroring hers, and clueing her in that he had not arranged this as a set up. It gave her a moment of reprieve, but a fleeting one.

"This is the police!" A male voice shouted, barging into the room. "Hands up! Put your bloody hands up!"

Hermione and Longbottom did as they were told, and she felt the panic in her veins go into overdrive at the sight of the two uniformed constables stepping into the foyer with their guns raised. Neither of them, she knew with a sinking feeling, were on the Death Eater's payroll. If they had been, they wouldn't have been stupid enough to disrupt a pickup.

"Get on the fucking ground," one of them sneered at Longbottom. "My name is PC Boot, and you're under arrest for the suspicions of opiate creation and intent to distribute. My partner here, PC Corner, will read you your rights and - " He broke off as his narrowed eyes settled on Hermione.

He paused, then blinked. "Granger?" The other man looked up at that as well, and added, "What the bloody hell are you doing here? I didn't know you were back, much less that you had been assigned to this case."

 _Fuck you_ , she swore internally, _fuckfuckfuck_.

How dare the PC's give her away like that? How _dare_ they? Fudge had explained to her that she would be pronounced to be on an extended personal leave should any of her fellow law enforcement coworkers have any questions regarding her whereabouts (thinking back to that day, she should have known then that her mission would have been extensive).

She tried to swallow the pit stuck in the back of her throat but found she was unable to; her chest heaved and cracked as her eyes slid from one of her old coworkers to the other, finally resting on Longbottom's. The horrible part was that he was an easy read, unlike her usual company, and she could see it plain as day on his face. Recognition, and worse, _comprehension_.

"Granger," Longbottom croaked. "Hermione Granger?"

 _Double fuck_.

Boot radioed in the arrest, requesting back-up to sort through the house and specifically asked for a drug unit to come while Corner wrangled Longbottom into the backseat of a cruiser. Hermione pocketed a note from the entry table and followed them outside, gaping at the sheer audacity they had to go about their arrest as if it was just a normal day. Nothing to see here. Move along, move along.

After they'd pulled away, Theo came screeching up the drive and bounded out of the car, barreling towards her with his fists clenched and eyes narrowed. "What the fuck was that?" He demanded. "What were they _doing_ here?"

Hermione shook the panic from her mind, willing herself to remain in character and hope – _pray_ – that it would not destroy her. "We don't have time. We have to go."

"Penny, what the fucking hell happened?"

"We have to bloody leave, Theo, they called for back-up. More coppers will be here any minute, and I don't know about you, but I definitely don't want to be here when they arrive." She climbed into the car and scowled at him before he finally took up the gear shift and peeled out of the driveway at a dangerous speed, tearing down the road and delivering them straight to Malfoy Manor.

"Are you going to fucking explain anything?" Theo shouted at her.

"They got Longbottom," she said, ignoring the violent glare he sent her and focusing on the road. If she didn't think about it too intensely, she was sure she could keep her voice at an even, unsuspecting level. "I'm fine," she lied. "They didn't see me. I slipped out before they noticed I was there."

"How fucking lucky for you," he hissed.

Hermione bit her lip, staring out the window and remaining quiet for the remainder of the drive.

* * *

"What the fuck are we going to do?" Blaise wailed, tapping his nervous fingers against the teacup that was filled to the brim with not-tea.

"We're going to keep a level head, that's what we're going to bloody fucking do." Draco snapped, pausing in his pacing to glare at the beautiful man. "You know we don't have any hard evidence tying us to Longbottom. Everything has been dealt with in-person, in cash, and in every way imaginable that would protect us from that. You know that, Zabini, so tighten up."

Blaise nodded forcefully, swallowing a large gulp of dark, burning liquid without so much as a wince.

Narcissa and Astoria were huddled in the corner in hushed conversation; their pale eyes flickering toward Draco and the others occasionally, but for the most part they existed in their own little world surrounded by clouds of smoke.

Draco carried on, ignoring their obvious disengagement, and berated his men for not trusting that he would take care of things. That he would find a solution, and a brilliant one. However, Theo was quick to bring up the one argument that Draco could not form a formidable defense for, and it was this: _What the bloody hell do we do if he outs us?_

"He won't," Draco insisted, lips curling in displeasure. "He wouldn't want his father's head on his hands, because he knows we'd cease providing care for him if he ratted us out to the dirty coppers."

Hermione fished out a crumpled paper from her coat pocket and held it out for Draco to take, and when he did, she provided an explanation for the rest of those who couldn't read the black and white notecard. "Frank Longbottom passed away," she said drily. "The funeral service was today."

"Fuck," Theo swore, depositing a butt in the ashtray and automatically lighting another cigarette.

"Here's what we're going to do," Draco bellowed definitively, "We're going to shut this fucking shit down, right now." He aimed a finger in Marcus and Graham's direction. "Minimize the Death Eater appearances, pull everyone from the streets and don't let any of them out until I say so. Only the ones who are absolutely necessary go about their usual business," he sighed. "We can't have the coppers noticing any sudden change in behavior, either."

Then, he turned to Theo and Blaise, "We're taking a step back, boys, and letting the women run this show. We can't risk being seen or heard in the public until we're sure Longbottom isn't suicidal enough to leak our names to the coppers."

Hermione drowned out the sound of Draco's temper and let her own insecurities run their course in her mind. Draco was too busy, too concerned, for his men and his empire to fall into the depths at the hand of Neville Longbottom's tongue to pay much attention to her at the moment.

She, however, was primarily concerned with the haunted look of recognition that displayed across Neville Longbottom's face to think about much else. His tongue – whether or not he was going to talk – was another immediate concern of hers, of course, because unlike the others she had to worry about him talking about her two-fold.

He clearly knew who she was.

Who she _really_ was.

Hermione's eyes refocused on the scene before her as she surveyed the group of people that she had come to call family and wondered if they would ever forgive her if she were to tell them the truth. Her gaze fell, as it always did, on Draco and she lamented having to confess her true identity to him. Surely, _surely_ , he would not understand. She was, after all, not a little assistant but a dirty copper.

Draco, as if sensing her eyes on him, shifted to peer at her over his shoulder and Hermione felt her blood run cold. The anger, the ice, that shone through his darkened eyes were that of an endless abyss. The vacuum and nothingness of space itself; cold and unforgiving.

It was the moment she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he would never accept her if he knew the truth about her. Hermione closed her eyes and silently craved something she knew she had no right, no _fucking_ right, asking for.

To be granted the luxury of orbiting his star. No matter the cost. No matter the consequences.

* * *

 **A/N -** This chapter title comes from Kendrick Lamar's song _DNA_ from the lines _sex, money, murder, these are the breaks / these are the times, level number nine_ / _look up in the sky, ten is on the way_ and I implore you to make of that what you will xx


	6. Lost a Couple Screws

**Chapter 6: Lost a Couple Screws**

* * *

_24 December 1924_

_BELOVED BACHELOR MISSING: A REFLECTION OF HIS LIFE AND LEGACY_

_By Rita Skeeter_

_Mr. Draco Malfoy, a decorated war veteran and formidable ally of law enforcement, was one of the most notable faces of the opposition to the rise of communism in Great Britain. He stood proudly beside King George V at his 58th birthday celebration to voice his support of the London Metropolitan Police in their attempt to rid the city of its communist and Irish Republican Army (IRA) enthusiasts._

_Mr. Malfoy was, in fact, so entrusted by the police that Chief Inspector Horace Slughorn hailed his unfailing knowledge in an ongoing investigation. "The young man is quite well-connected," Chief Inspector Slughorn told us. "He is infallibly clever, just like his father. I have known Mr. Draco Malfoy for nearly all his life! We are quite close, I would say, and I trust him as I would my own son. An honest and kind man, through and through, he is." Despite the_ Daily Prophet's _best efforts, no more can be said about the investigation, but we do know that Mr. Winston Churchill himself has approved of Mr. Malfoy as a confidential informant on the case._

_Furthermore, due to the quiet and almost predictable show of Mr. Draco Malfoy in public throughout the last two or so years, we can presume that he was so enthralled in assisting the police with their civil duties to better London to make more than the necessary appearances. It is because of his generosity and usefulness, that we cannot fault him for not gracing the public more often during those years._

Per usual, Rita is entirely off course.

At this point, I would say she was _so_ beyond the scope of reality that she practically made up history as she saw fit. Though, I suppose at this point in time I am quite bias seeing as I have spent years beside Draco and know precisely how he feels about law enforcement (hint: it's not fucking supportive).

You know what else? I wish – I _wish_ – the past few years had been as boringly quiet as Rita and all of London would have liked to believe. If there was any reason as to why Draco did not _grace_ the bloody public as often as he usually did and smile for the cameras and insist that the Most Charming Smile award go to blubbering Lockhart for the umpteenth time, it was definitely not because he was generously aiding Slughorn's investigation.

I would know. I was in the fucking middle of what actually happened.

At least she got one thing right, and that was Draco's loud opposition to any communists or IRA in the city. Though, being not entirely dim-witted as Slughorn would like to believe (not that he ever spoke to me, but simply because I was a woman and that was apparently evidence enough; the fucking sexist buffoon), I highly doubt he or the King himself approved of Draco's methodology for ridding the city of its invaders.

Ah, well.

It's not as if I was above violence by then, either.

See one, do one, teach one or some fuckery like that.

* * *

_3 May 1922_

"Nott!" Astoria bellowed, sweeping into the dimly lit man cave in the back of one of Theo's pubs and smacking him upside the head. "Nott, wake the fuck up!" He jumped up immediately, swinging his arms wildly, brandishing a blade. She expertly missed his groggy and drunken attacks and moved on to the other men in the room.

"Oi, Satan!" Theo groaned, slicking his hair back and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "What the fuck did you do that for?"

Hermione chuckled and leaned against the banister, watching as Astoria promptly ignored him and poured a jug of water over Marcus and Blaise's heads. "Wake up gentlemen! Rise and fucking shine!"

"Fuck," Blaise swore, glaring up at her.

Hermione dutifully threw him a kitchen towel, grabbed a bottle from behind the bar, and poured the three of them some hot brandy. Meanwhile, the other petite brunette assaulted Graham with the palm of her hand until he all but fell off the sofa he'd been crookedly snoring on. "What the fuck?" He grimaced, righting himself and rubbing at the back of his head. "What the bloody hell was that for?"

Astoria leaned down to add, "Wake up. Go home. Kiss your wife. Feed your kids. Grab your weapons and meet Draco at the Manor." She stood tall and straightened her jacket and pencil skirt, then sauntered over to where Hermione had made herself comfortable in a booth.

"Fucking hell," Marcus groaned, emptying his cup and levying for another.

Theo crossed the room on wobbly legs and swiped the bottle from Hermione's grasp, pouring himself and the other men another round. "Why the fuck are you two here, eh?" He asked over his shoulder.

Hermione ignored him and arched a brow at Astoria quizzically. "Montague's married?" She asked. When Astoria nodded, Hermione blinked and turned to Graham, aghast. "You're married?" She squealed. "You have _kids_?"

"Penny," he coughed, still favoring one of his temples. "Your tone. It wounds. Why the fuck do you sound so shocked, eh? I'm offended, truly."

Blaise smacked him again, then artfully dodged the return blow. He wiggled his brows at Hermione, "Ever wonder why Draco stuck him on the babysitting duty?"

Hermione blinked. She hadn't really thought about it actually, but now she tried to see him in a new light. She struggled. Graham was hardly the most paternal of the group, though she supposed if it was between him and Flint, then it would make more sense to have him training the potential new Death Eaters.

"And your wife?" She pressed, surveying the smirks and laughs shared among the men. Astoria quirked her lips knowingly as well. "Who is she? _Where_ is she?"

"Elsewhere," Graham waved, shrugging. "With the said kids."

"What the fu - "

"Oi," Theo said, splashing cold water on his face and coming to sit beside Hermione, propping his feet up on her lap for a split second before she swiftly kicked them down. "Montague's a good husband. A good father." He paused, eying his mate. "I think."

"Fuck you," Graham shot back.

Astoria preened at the small bout of chaos that ensued between the four men, the spoke up in a trilling tone once they had quieted enough for her to be heard. "How many kids do you have, now?" She arched a dark brow at him, sending Hermione a sidelong smirk, and crossed her arms over her designer lapels, awaiting his response.

"Two," he replied automatically. "No, wait. Three."

Hermione shook her head, muttering, "Fucking idiot," under her breath as Astoria went on with the teasing interrogation.

"And how old are they now?" At that, Graham visibly grimaced. Theo outright laughed and playfully swatted Blaise, the two of them waiting their friend's reply with wide, stupid grins.

"I don't bloody know," he snapped. "Babies. Five, six, eight. Fuck, leave me alone." He looked over at Hermione again. "Don't listen to these fuckers, I'm a good father. Even if I wasn't," he cautiously drawled. "I'm a damn good husband."

"I still can't believe this," Hermione exhaled. "Why is she never around? How come, until now, I have never heard of her, hm?" She surveyed the soft chuckles that swept across the dimly lit room and sighed. "She doesn't know what you do, does she?"

Theo spoke up, tipping the last of his drink to the back of his throat and setting it down with a loud clang. "More or less."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Hermione challenged, giving him a disapproving look. His lips twisted into his usual playful smirk that meant he didn't plan on elaborating. She sighed.

Blaise, then, chimed in. "Less of the more, and more of the less." He winked at her and she shook her head, standing up and following Astoria toward the door.

"Don't be fucking late," Astoria ordered, throwing an accusatory finger around the group of them. It settled on Theo with an added narrowing of her pale green eyes, "I'm talking to you _especially_ , Nott." Then, she looped her arm in Hermione's and directed her out of the dark pub and into the bright, busy streets of London. "Come on," she dimpled, nodding to their driver – "St. Paul's, Kreacher" – and slid into the backseat behind Hermione. "We don't want to be late, either," she added.

Hermione and Astoria strode into the church – the latter performing the sign of the Cross dutifully while the former stumbled through the motions as more of an afterthought – and joined Narcissa in one of the middle pews.

Her head was bent, and her jet-black hair spilled out of its half-updo onto the silvery white strands cascading down her shoulders; between her gloved hands, deep emerald lace per usual despite what Blaise and Daphne claimed to be the _summer of pastels_ , was a glass-beaded rosary.

"Dear Lord," she murmured, eyes closed in concentration. "Make this year pass well. Let none get hurt, and make them that do, not Death Eater's." Her breath fell evenly, and Hermione kept her eyes trained on the posh woman rather than following Astoria in closing her eyes and nodding along to what she said. She was enthralled by every word that fell from Narcissa's tinted lips.

"Watch Flint," Narcissa went on. "Because he is the only one his brother will listen to, and I don't want to have to be responsible for that little shit."

Hermione's jaw dropped; she surveyed the other churchgoers to see if anyone else had hurt the slight, and then turned her attention back to the woman beside her when she ruled that nothing was going to come of it. As Narcissa went on, Hermione anxiously awaited the inevitable bolt of lightning she presumed would strike.

"Watch Montague," she continued without missing a beat. "Because he has so many depending on him, and again, I don't want to be responsible for taking them in. Especially not Marietta, that bitch."

Astoria's lips quirked into a tiny smirk as Hermione stifled a bout of dry coughs.

"Watch Zabini," Narcissa whispered. "Because he is as likely to hurt himself as anyone else." There was a pause, and an obvious exasperated sigh as she moved on to the final prayers.

"Watch Nott," she breathed. "Because his temper could rival the devil's himself and I do not wish for him to die and go on antagonizing the poor fucking bastard until he sends him back to us, his attitude renewed."

Hermione closed her eyes for the last prayer, sending one silently herself.

"Watch my boy," Narcissa murmured. "Watch my darling Draco. I know what he is, but he does what he does for us." She paused, her eyelids flickering open as she regarded the virginal fixture at the back of the church. "I think." Then, she signed the Cross and added, "Amen."

Hermione followed in Astoria's footsteps to sign and whisper, "Amen," as well before standing in the pew and exiting the church. Outside, Hermione angled herself toward the other women and frowned, "Since when are you all religious?"

"We aren't," Astoria replied primly. "Though, some days, it's better to be safe than sorry."

"But - "

"Penny," Narcissa interrupted in a reprimanding tone of finality. "Don't question it." She instructed Kreacher where to go and then settled herself in the back seat between Astoria and Hermione. Narcissa turned to the latter of the two and went on, "I used to do that every morning during the war." She sighed. "I hope soon I'll be done with it for good."

Hermione chewed her lip.

She seriously doubted that was the case, but there was no point in arguing with Draco's mother.

* * *

A few weeks later, the three of them waited at platform four for Pansy and Daphne to arrive back in London from the end of their school year, leaving the men to hoard up in the Manor as they had done for the past two months. With Neville Longbottom evidently missing, Draco wasn't taking any chances on that front, and so only the women had been allowed to run various errands for the Death Eaters.

Hermione supposed she should be thankful nothing had come from Longbottom, but she had the sinking feeling that wouldn't last forever.

Immediately after his arrest, Draco had sent word to Greg and Vince that they needed to desist their work in New York and return back to London at soon as possible. It wasn't safe for them, especially if there was any connection made between Longbottom's opium, his employment by Draco, and its relation to the influx of wealth from America. The prohibition income would have to be sacrificed as well.

It hardly had a severe impact on the family and the company since most of the money they'd made had been laughably ludicrous and well beyond even their aristocratic spending habits. Still. It made a difference in some respects when Draco had already set in motion the plan to overthrow Karkaroff but now had no monetary reason to hold a legal betting shop in Graham's name.

"Miss Greengrass! Miss Parkinson!" Winky called out excitedly, waving them down as they stepped off the train.

Narcissa stepped into place and held out her arms for the women to fall into, "Oh, my darlings!" She exclaimed loudly enough for several heads on the platform to turn. There was a frenzied rush of commentary followed by a few flashes of light. "Pans," Narcissa said affectionately, caressing her cheek. "Daph," she added, brushing the fine blond waves of the other woman.

This was precisely what Astoria and Hermione had been waiting for.

"Now, Penny," she whispered, sliding out of the second car and rushing toward the platform.

As the cameras continued to go off, and Rita Skeeter herself marveled at the three women embracing emphatically, Astoria and Hermione slinked off to the last car of the train. The plan had been to utilize the British press' presence to distract anyone lingering about with a connection to the Order.

"No doubt by tomorrow morning there will be a cover story proclaiming Daphne and Pansy angling for Narcissa's favor," Hermione muttered with a roll of her eyes.

Astoria's laughter cut through the air like bells, "It was always between them, wasn't it? It's a wonder Draco doesn't quietly indulge in the rumors and place a ring on one of them during an outing."

Hermione shifted through the remainder of the people on the platform and stepped onto the train car, adding over her shoulder, "Or, better yet, he should take turns moving a ring between them and see what that horrible Rita woman thinks of that."

"Bloody brilliant, Penny," Astoria beamed. "Let's bring it up at the next family meeting." Then, she shot herself down the aisle at a brisk pace, heading toward seats eighty-four and eighty-five. There were two men in dark coats and uncharacteristically large hats, tipped low to cover their faces. "Hello, gentlemen," Astoria remarked.

The taller of the two yelped while the other snapped his head up and gasped, "Bloody hell, woman!" – "Satan," Astoria corrected with a wink – He looked nervously around the empty train car before standing up and beckoning for the other man to follow. "I thought Draco said - "

"He did," Hermione said. "I'm here." She nodded to Greg and Vince and turned on her heel to exit the train. "Come on," she told them, waving them behind her through the crowd as they slipped out of the station and into the second car. "Hurry," she added, noticing the press begin to tire of Narcissa fondly asking the two women how their journey was.

* * *

"You know," Hermione said, taking the note from Dobby, closing the door and crossing the room to hand it to Draco. "If Dobby knows to come looking for you here, it's only a matter of time before Narcissa does as well."

He took the note, unfolding it and reading it contents quickly before sighing and dragging his gaze back up to meet hers with an amused twitch of his mouth. "It's not like I intended to hide out here permanently," he remarked. "It doesn't take a clever mind to add your bedroom to the list of possible places I might be if not in mine."

"Oh?" Hermione leered, swinging one leg over his lap and straddling him at her small, chestnut desk. "You have an entire list of places, do you?" She nipped at his ear, then whispered, "Do tell, _Mr. Malfoy_."

A satisfying shudder ran over his body.

"Is that jealousy I hear in your voice, Penny?" Draco countered, brushing his thumb across her cheekbone, jawline, and exposed clavicle.

"No," she gasped as his lips replaced his fingertips.

A gentle laugh escaped his lips, vibrating against her skin. "I can assure you, _Miss Clearwater_ ," he teased. "Theo is half as delightful as far as company goes, compared to you. For one thing, he hogs the sheets gregariously."

"How dare he," she quipped, feigning disgust. Her fingers slowly unbuttoned his oxford, peeling the soft material back from his sculpted shoulders and digging her nails into the hot skin. "He should be punished," she added, brushing her lips against his.

Draco bit at her bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth and holding it captive. Like he did with many parts of her. Hermione shivered as his hands wound through her hair, tugging unkindly at her curls and exposing her neck. His mouth was warm and searing, punishing in its own way despite the gentle trail of kisses he left down her throat.

"Mhmm," he murmured. "I agree." Draco lifted Hermione by her bum and walked her over to the bed, lying her against the mattress and falling to his knees at the end of the bed. "How should I punish him, you think? I am very skilled at torment," he teased, nipping at the bare skin of her calves as he peeled away the stockings, "or so I'm told."

 _You most certainly are,_ she thought, biting down on her lip to stop a moan from escaping as his mouth moved up her thighs. His breath was burning, churning something deep inside of her. It built and built, slowly but surely.

"I'm sure you'll think of something," she gasped, his tongue flicking across her slit.

He brought his head up to rest his chin on her hip, replacing his tongue with his deft fingers, encircling her torturously until she was so slick and the heat inside of her threatening to burst that she arched her back, swiveling her hips against his palm to create more friction. Draco, ever the attentive partner, slid his fingers in then curved them against her clit, rubbing expertly as the ball in her lower abdomen coiled and coiled, then came undone in a single burst.

"I'll need your help, Penny," he murmured softly against her bare stomach. She writhed, riding out the first wave and preparing for the second one that was soon to come if he kept doing what he was doing to her. "I always need your help." He bit at her pebbled skin, causing a yelp to escape her lips, then flicked his tongue over the already fading mark, licking an apology against her. "Once made equal to man, woman becomes his superior."

Hermione sat up, grabbing at his longer hair and yanking his head back until he let go of her clit as well. "Socrates again?" She challenged with a skeptical dark brow. He only smirked, shrugging his nonchalance as if to say, _Well, he had a point, didn't he?_ And against that, she could not argue.

She pulled the summer shift dress over her narrow shoulders and crawled back onto the bed, patting the silky, champagne-colored sheets with a mischievous grin. "Draco," she breathed as he rid himself of his trousers and slid onto the mattress beside her. "I believe it should be _I_ who torments you today, hm?"

His silver eyes glinted at the allusion, but he leaned back against the pillows, pulling her naked body on top of his burning one. "Who is to say that tasting your sweet euphoria on my tongue is not torment enough?" He challenged. She pushed him playfully away and propped herself on all fours over his torso, shimmying down his chest one bite and kiss at a time. "You," he exhaled, "will be the death of me, Penny."

Hermione didn't bother hiding the smile that crept over her face and met his eye as she lowered her mouth over the tip of his cock. "Perhaps," she said, pulling back with a loud pop. "I want you to taste _your_ salty, savoury elation on my tongue." His eyes widened, pupils dilated, and Hermione reveled at how easily he came undone by her. It was only fair since he had the same, if not a more prominent, effect on her resolve.

Draco's penis was beautiful.

Which didn't make it a very difficult task for her to take it between her lips and torment him as she saw fit; her tongue licking up his shaft as her hand wrapped around it, pumping vigorously as her lips continued to slide up and down his throbbing length.

One meticulously timed shift of her fingers lower, a bit of applied pressure, and he was coming in powerful bursts at the back of her throat. Hermione smiled inwardly, licking away the last of his salty desire for her and brushing her slick lips on the back of her hand, crawling back up his torso to mount him.

Her hips collided with his rhythmically as she straddled him, bouncing up and down.

Hermione rode him until she felt the barrier of another euphoric release break and come undone, drowning her. She came over him, _hard_ , and digging her nails into his biceps. There wasn't a moment for her to catch her breath before Draco leaned forward, enveloping her in his arms and hugging her close to him.

"Pen," he gasped.

This was what he needed.

Intimacy _._

He always did that. He always shifted them, from whatever position they were in, to hold her close at the end. Draco's breath was hot and ragged as his lips brushed against her shoulder; the rough pads of his fingers pressed into her scapulae, and his legs quivered against hers as he held them together and closer, closer, _closer_.

Lying on their backs, tangled in the silk sheets, limbs intertwined, they caught their breath for what felt like hours.

Finally, Hermione broke the silence, sitting up to prop her head and sex-crazed curls up on her palm. She regarded him, his relaxed state, for a full thirty seconds before ruining it. "What did the note say?" She asked.

Draco sighed.

"You never miss a thing," he said, turning his head to survey her warm, brown eyes on him. "Do you, Penny?" She lifted her shoulders as best she could and quirked her mouth into a lopsided smile as if to say, _What is there to be done about it?_

At her insistent expression and prolonged silence, he tilted his head back and drew her into his arms.

"Very well," he declared. "It was – It wasn't good, per se. But it also wasn't bad."

Hermione sighed, trailing her fingers through his hair, along his jawline, across his lips. "So descriptive, Draco," she teased. "I understand perfectly well now. I see the light." She thought she was funny. He, evidently, did not. He flipped her onto her back and pressed his body against her, barely hovering to inhibit the weight from crushing her.

She gasped; all of the air leaving her lungs in a single, electrifying hiss.

"Pen," he growled against her lips in a low, warning tone.

Hermione bit down on her lower lip, then held her breath as she lifted her chin to pull at his lip instead, taking it between her teeth and sucking on it. Savoring the taste of him. His shoulders relaxed minutely as she continued grazing her lips along his jaw, marveling at the sensation of his pale stubble on her swollen mouth.

He exhaled steadily.

"Scabior has no idea what I meant when I asked about Longbottom's arrest." Draco said, his silver eyes flashing a dark, slate grey as the tone of conversation shifted. "He basically admitted that there was no record of it ever happening. Nothing." He shook his head. "I just don't fucking understand what I'm supposed to do with that information."

Hermione chewed her lip, brows furrowed in attempt to come up with a formidable response, but a loud bang on the door interrupted her efforts. There was another thunderous rapt before it burst open and Theo stormed in, arms folded and pale eyes blazing.

"Oi!" He bellowed. "You two better get the fuck downstairs right now or Narcissa is coming up here herself. Personally, I volunteered to save both of your skins, but I would have rather gone another day without seeing Draco's pale arse, understood?" He rolled his eyes at them scrambling apart. "Get a bloody move on, eh?"

Theo spun and aimed himself back out the open door, not bothering to close it, and muttered, "For fuck's sake," loudly under his breath as he left.

Hermione instantly flushed, but Draco simply leaned across the bed as they redressed and kissed her roughly, laughing against her lips. "Bloody Nott," he swore.

She shook her head, twisting her traitorous curls into a suitable chignon before following him out into the corridor and down the main staircase. "No," she corrected. "Bloody Narcissa." However, in response, he merely winked down at her as his palm guided the small of her back into the main sitting room where it had been luxuriously decorated for Draco's twenty-seventh birthday.

* * *

There was a heat wave the weekend of the Twenty-Second Annual Charity Fundraiser for Children in Need which made walking through the cobblestone streets of London positively _killer_.

Hermione's heels clacked loudly against the stone as she made her way around the High Street, bobbing in and out of shops for various things on everyone's wish list; dark chocolate for Greg and Vince, new lipstick for Pansy and Daphne, di for Theo to defile, and a keychain for Narcissa's newest addition to the family cars.

Normally this mundane task fell to one of the house staff – almost always to Winky since she had the best taste among them – but they were over the moon with their own list of things to do to prepare for the gala the family would be hosting. Astoria was away for the weekend, running some errand for Narcissa though Hermione had no idea what it was, and being herself cordially _not_ invited to the gala this year, she opted to compile a small to-do list of her own to keep herself busy.

Truth be told, she quite enjoyed the alone time. It wasn't as if she had a lot of it in the Manor with everyone home for the long summer.

Hermione had just purchased a tiny black horse that she thought was fitting for enough for the Rolls-Royce Twenty that Narcissa had custom-painted black with red leather interior, when someone gripped her elbow firmly and tugged her away from the main street where she had been angling to hail for a cab (because Kreacher had rudely declined her car service under the pretense that "Missus was not a real Malfoy or Death Eater").

"Don't scream," a low, male voice whispered in her ear.

Hermione tried to whip her head around to see past the tinted sunglasses and silk tie over her hair, but it was no use. It wasn't until she was obscured by a dark alleyway in an arcade that the bruising grip released her. She spun around with her blade poised and gaped, momentarily foregoing the idea of using it.

"Longbottom?" She blinked. "Neville Longbottom?"

"Yes," he replied coarsely. He eyed the street behind them warily and met her brown eyes with wide, oceanic frantic ones. "I don't have a lot of time. I'm afraid I might have been followed."

"What the - "

He thrust a crumpled note in her hand and immediately backed away, "We need to talk. Meet me there. Half-ten tonight, alright?"

Then, he was gone.

Hermione blinked several times, pocketed her blade, and unfolded the worn paper in her small hands. They were trembling terribly as she read the address, wondering if she could have possibly suffered a vision from the sweltering heat but ruled that out as she recognized the handwriting to be the same as the scribbles written on the packages she used to collect from the Longbottom estate.

That night, Hermione had no trouble sneaking out of the Manor, while everyone else was still out at the gala, and finding her way to the address, though calling it an address was a stretch. The path that led under the noisy, frequented bridge that Longbottom insisted she meet him at was pitch-black and Hermione nearly tripped twice. At the last step, pale arms reached out to steady her as she almost succumbed to a near-fatal fall.

"Whoa," Longbottom said, helping her to her feet and ushering her further under the bridge and out of sight. "You alright?" She nodded numbly. His darkened eyes flitted over her head, "You come alone?"

"Yes," she snapped, "Obviously."

Hermione had done that for her own safety, not trusting anyone else to occupy her since she still wasn't sure whether or not Neville Longbottom was a friend or foe, but suddenly she feared that if he were the latter that she had just made his job of exposing her or getting rid of her that much easier.

Her fingers fluttered nervously to the revolver she'd stuffed in her purse at the last second – nipping it from Draco's bedside table.

"Come," Longbottom beckoned, motioning for her to follow him further into the darkness.

"Fuck no," she shouted back over the roar of the canal the bridge crossed over. The dark water lapping ominously to her left, threatening her just as the icy blue gaze and hollowed face of the man before her did. "I'm not going anywhere else with you until you start talking," she insisted.

He sighed, "I could say the same for you, you know." He arched an ebony brow and added a murmured, " _Granger_ ," to prove it.

She swallowed.

"I just want to talk," Longbottom stated. "Somewhere quieter," he added, gesturing emphatically to the thundering water.

"Fine," Hermione grumbled.

They walked in silence for a couple of blocks until he brought her to what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse. Inside, it reeked of stale lager and smoke. In the back there was a rickety set of rusted stairs that bowed beneath their feet as they climbed. Hermione – not for the first time and likely not for the last – imagined what she would think of herself if this was how she died. Would she be surprised? No, because this endeavor seemed no more risky than any other that she'd done. Would she be able to survive any attempt on her life? One quick sweep across the attic room told her no, she probably wouldn't if Neville tried hard enough.

There was virtually no escaping where he brought her.

The floorboards were uneven and moth-eaten. The single lamp swung precariously, illuminating them in a hazy yellow glow. The two chairs he propped up for them had clearly seen better days, but at least the bottle of whiskey he produced along with two glasses were new and inviting.

"A gracious host," she remarked drily, taking the proffered glass and taking a sip, welcoming the numbing of her nerves that accompanied it.

"What can I say?" Longbottom replied. "I was drilled from birth with as much aristocratic etiquette as your precious Death Eaters," he smirked.

Hermione blinked.

"Don't worry," he said, raising his glass to her. "I haven't told anyone about them." He took an enormous gulp, eyes drooping slightly as he regarded her. "Or you."

She took a seat across from him, gripping her purse tightly in her lap, "Why not?" She pressed, narrowing her eyes at him. There was evidence of starvation in the hollow of his cheeks, and of isolation in the dilated pupils of his eyes. "I mean, I'm thrilled that you haven't, it quite literally saved my life but… Why didn't you? Say anything, that is."

"I was going to," he admitted. "I supposed I could have won myself some form of witness protection for giving up Malfoy and his Death Eater clan. But after I said your name, _your real name_ ," – Hermione blanched – "and the coppers relayed that to whomever they radioed, I was taken… elsewhere. Then everything changed."

"Elsewhere?" She questioned, frowning.

Longbottom nodded, "Hm." He refilled their glasses, then went on. "It all happened a bit quickly to be honest."

The paranoia bubbled in Hermione to the point of boiling over and she reached out, gripping his wrist between her filed nails, digging them in until his pale skin broke. "Tell me everything," she begged. "Everything. No detail is too small."

"Why should I?"

She blinked, "Are you telling me that you didn't tell anyone about my double identity, and you demanded that I follow you all the way out here for what… nothing? You seriously expect me to believe I don't think you need to confess something? That you don't – I don't know – trust me or need me for something?"

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, sipping at the dark liquor.

"That's it, isn't it?" Hermione breathed. "You need something from me. Otherwise why bother with," she paused, gesturing to the stale air between them and the dim light barely illuminating the space around them. "… all of this."

Longbottom grumbled something incoherent under his breath, but Hermione wasn't about to get taken advantage of, and she definitely wasn't about to leave here without any answers. "What was that?" She snapped loudly, glaring at him. "What the fuck did you just mumble?"

"I _said_ ," he hissed back at her. "You are too fucking clever for your own good."

She sighed, leaning back against the aged wooden chair that was currently fucking up her posture more and more every minute. "I know," she lamented finally, taking a generous sip. "It's going to get me killed one day. Of that, I have no doubt."

Longbottom shook his head, raising his glass to her once more. "My stupidity will be the death of me, so," he lifted his shoulders minutely. "Cheers to that."

Hermione snorted, meeting his glass and clanking hers against it, then bringing hers to her lips. The whiskey burned her throat, numbed her tongue, and slicked her lips. "So," she said lifted her feet to a crate and crossing her ankles, making herself comfortable. "Are you going to tell me _how_ you came to know my name? While you're at it," she said, aiming her forefinger toward him. "If you could explain what the bloody hell you mean by 'elsewhere' that would be enormously helpful."

"Well," he said, inhaling deeply. "If we're going to get into the nitty gritty, you may as well call me Neville." When he met her eye and she arched a judgmental brow, he continued, "You and your Death Eater lot always call me Longbottom." – "Because that's your name," she cut in, but he ignored it, talking over her – "It reminds me of my father, Professor Longbottom as everyone called him, and on me the name just feels… empty. I don't feel like I measure up to it."

Hermione, recognizing the flash of genuine pain behind his blue eyes, bit back a derogatory comment.

"He's how I know who you are, by the way." Longbottom – _Neville_ , she corrected herself internally – stated, taking a cigarette from her with an amicable nod. "My father. He _did_ teach you chemistry. Hermione Granger," he said, tasting her name on his whiskey-soaked lips. "He talked about you a lot. It was ridiculously modest of you to claim not to be one of his brighter students, you know."

She shrugged.

Neville shook his head, chuckling, then abruptly angled towards her and proclaimed, "And you know what else?" His chest heaved up and down dramatically and his eyes were wild and bloodshot, but she could tell from the lack of tension in his limbs that he was growing comfortable around her. As if _she_ was the one withholding a secret worth his life. "As _soon_ as I mentioned your name and the coppers relayed that, they completely abandoned protocol."

Her eyes narrowed, "How do you know what police protocol is?"

He let a mirthless laugh escape his lips as he settled back into his chair and took a long drag, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "I was not the poster-perfect aristocratic boy my parents, and my Gran, so desperately wanted. I was constantly in trouble for – Fuck – for everything, really."

Hermione grunted, something between a cough and a snort that dissolved into her next sip. "I'm starting to think _none_ of you aristocratic fuckers are as clean and noble and precious as you all make yourselves out to be."

"You may be right about that," he agreed, leaning his head back against the back of his chair. She waited patiently for him to continue. There was an undeniable gut feeling that this was a vital part of the reason he appeared to be willing to trust her; to rely on her for something. "Anyway," He went on and she let out a shaky breath. "The two officers or whatever took me to a weird, dirty location that was definitely not their Headquarters. It was in a rough part of the city, practically some hole in the wall, and there were tons of other men there. Not law enforcement. Or, at least, I don't think they were."

Hermione desperately wanted to interrupt and press him for more details, but his eyes had glazed over as he relived the memory so she kept quiet, mentally recording all of the details as best as she could.

"They put me in a windowless room, kicked me around a bit. Made me bleed. That was typical. What was odd was that when a new officer came in, one of their supervisors I would guess, the air in the room – It changed. It got cold… so, so cold. Then he – "

Neville stopped abruptly.

He snapped his eyes open and Hermione could see the paralyzing _fear_ echoing behind the deep, brilliant blue of his irises. A shiver shot up her spine.

"He killed them." Neville told her, barely above a whisper. "The other man, the new one, he just – he shot them. Execution style. Didn't even blink." He swallowed heavily, the lump in his throat bobbing helplessly. As trapped in the recollection as he was. "I knew that was the moment I was probably as good as dead. That's when I – Well – Let's just say that I don't think the other man expected me to put up a fight."

Neville shuddered.

"I'm – I'm sorry," Hermione muttered, eyes dropping to his hands clamped in his lap, furiously digging into skin and tearing at what was left of his cigarette.

"At first, I blamed you for what happened. I thought – There had to be a reason they brought me there and tried to… you know. After I said your name." He slid a sidelong glance at her. "The real one, that is."

She coughed once, clearing the dryness in the back of her throat. "What changed?"

He shrugged, "Nothing, I guess. I just – I realized that I kept quiet for a reason. Deep down I knew I could trust you somehow, that you wouldn't have been – _couldn't_ have been – the reason they brought me there." He filled their glasses liberally, nearly spilling the spiced liquor over the rim. "My father trusted you. Liked you. I figured that if you were good enough for him, then I didn't have a reason to doubt you."

Neville sighed. "Besides, it's not like I have a clean track record. This could have been a result of some ghost of my past that had nothing to do with you. Guess I can chop it all up to one horrible coincidence."

Being herself not a very firm believer in coincidences, Hermione tilted her head and blinked at him through hazy eyes. "That's it? Just like that?"

Neville met her eye, "Are you telling me that I shouldn't have thought better of you? That you _did_ have something to do with that whole ordeal?"

She shook her head, "No, I - "

There was a pause. A long, palpable silence.

"Who was the man? What happened to him if you… you know." She gestured to him and her drinking and smoking and conversing like old friends. "You're here." Hermione bit back the words, _You're fine_ , because truth be told he didn't look it. He looked as rattled and rugged as an Order member.

"He's alive," Neville supplied, squinting at the new light she'd handed to him. "I knocked him out, but I didn't kill him, that's for sure. Maybe I should've…" He trailed off, took a long drag, then exhaled his next statement. "There was nothing remarkable about him, I hate to tell you. He was plain, short brown hair and pale skin, with no discernable marks to identify him." He choked on a forced laugh. "Well," Neville added. " _Now_ he might have one."

Her brows furrowed, "What?"

Neville shot her a winning smirk, "I may have left a bit of a scar on his left hand. With my teeth."

At that, Hermione could not hold back a fit of laughter. It tore through her ribs, expanding her lungs and constricting them until they ached and burned. Her throat was dry that if it weren't for the copious amounts of whiskey, she was certain it would be bloody sore as hell.

"You - " She clutched her stomach. "You _bit_ him?" Hermione wiped a tear hastily away as she met Neville's amusing gaze. "Didn't you just say he shot two cops? He had a bloody gun and you – Oh, bloody hell. That is bloody brilliant."

Neville rolled his eyes, "I'm glad you find my circumstance amusing." Though, a moment later, the vehemence slid from his tone and he openly joined in the mocking. "Honestly? Fucking bastard deserved worse than that. I can't _stand_ men who didn't fight in France."

Hermione blinked back tears, sobering up.

She grimaced into her glass, not meeting his eye, "My father didn't fight in France."

His glare pierced through her, sending chills up her arms and lifting the thin hairs there effortlessly. Hermione had never felt so frightened of Neville Longbottom before that moment, and what he said next did little to ease her mind.

"Are you fucking joking, Granger?" His bloodshot eyes narrowed, and his lip curled in evident anger. "I shouldn't be bloody sitting here – having a drink with you, no less – and I definitely shouldn't have kept my mouth shut if that's how you repay me. Fucking disgusting."

Hermione groaned. "Neville," she warned, coaxing him back into his seat with a cutting glare of her own. "He didn't fight in France, but he did serve his country. He - " She grimaced, toying with the glass between her fingertips as she grasped for the words. "My grandparents," she explained. "They're French – the Grangers – and my father was chosen to stay in the city and interpret messages from or to the enemy. He didn't fight, that's true," Hermione admitted. "But he did _serve_."

"Hm," Neville grunted, sitting back and letting the whiskey wash over him, bringing him back to a state of relaxation. Or close enough to one. "He's no coward, then. I can't bloody _stand_ the men who didn't serve." He said, amending his phrasing for her benefit.

She nodded her appreciation.

"How did you know he didn't serve?" Hermione chimed after a shared moment of solace.

"Call it – Fuck, I don't know – soldier's gut feeling or something like that. Any man who served is automatically brethren. We can see – from one look at another – the ghosts of the war lingering behind our eyes. The seconds fighting for our life, crawling on our bloodied elbows in the trenches, in the mud. That one minute. The soldier's minute. In battle, that's all you get. One minute of everything at once, and anything before is _nothing_ , and everything after is _nothing_. Nothing in comparison, to that one minute. Nothing that matters."

He shuddered, and she did too, imagining it.

"Didn't you get enough of it?" Hermione remarked, inhaling familiar smoke. "Over there?"

Neville snorted, disregarding her query, "For you, I imagine, with your clever and logical brain that sort of emotional reading might not be comprehensible. Let me put it this way," he went on. "The men who went off to fight, or stayed and relayed messages or whatever, they spent years giving their lives for their country. For freedom and democracy. Then, they woke up one day and it was over."

He took a deep breath.

"They were expected to go back to work, or school, or find _something_ to bloody do to make the voices stop and the violence cease. Most of us, excluding your precious Death Eaters, struggled to make a living and re-enter society. So, to answer your question, you can mostly tell by where a man ranks in his field." Neville supplied.

Hermione considered this, then nodded along.

"Right," Neville stated, clearing his scorched throat. "The two coppers? They're arguably old enough to have put years of experience into their field and stand way higher than a bloody PC, but there they were. The man? He was older, but not by much, and yet he was high enough or secure enough to feel that he could kill them in cold blood and not suffer any conceivable consequences." He shook his head. "Like I said, _disgusting_."

She pursed her lips. "Makes sense," she sighed. "You're sure you don't recognize him? He didn't have any military insignia or anything?"

Neville shook his head.

"So," he said, choking on a dejected laugh. "I'm pretty _fucked_. On the one hand, I have this man with connections to the police, and absolutely no remorse for them at the same time, hunting me down. Then, on the other cursed hand, I have Malfoy plotting where to mount my head on his wall when he finally finds me."

Hermione opened her mouth to give him a snotty retort, but he was already shaking his head at her, aiming an accusatory finger at her over his glass. "Don't," he cautioned. "Don't look at me like that, Granger. I know damn well even if I _swore_ not to talk that he would still kill me."

She sighed, finding it impossible to disagree with him. He had a point. In fact, he had too good of a point. "Why don't you try and join him, then? Surely he would be more interested in saving your life if he recruited you."

"What?" Neville blinked. "Work as one of his little Death Eater members?" She nodded, and he snorted, turning his head away from her and running a shaky hand through his ebony waves. "No fucking thank you. I spent way too much of my life doing the immoral thing, the corrupt thing, the wrong thing. I don't need any more of it. Personally, I'm actually really glad to be rid of that lab."

He shuddered violently and Hermione grimaced.

"Wait," she began, scrutinizing him. "That's it." Hermione gasped, glaring at the man before her. "That's exactly it, isn't it? That's why you came looking for me in the first place, because you knew you wouldn't make it out alive – wouldn't survive on the streets for very long or possibly even make it out of the city at all – before one of them found you and killed you. You dragged me here, in the middle of bloody _nowhere_ , because you want me to do it."

Neville stared at her. He said nothing, and it said everything she needed to know.

Hermione shot to her feet, aghast. "You want me to kill you! You think I'll – What? – do it more _humanely_ than either of them?" She spat at his feet. "Fuck you,"

"I hardly find that thought to be offensive," he quipped. "Then again…" He tilted his head back and forth, lamenting her allegiances. Neville tipped his glass back, regarding her with darkened eyes, swimming with pain and fury. Then, he set the empty glass down and stood, towering over her easily. "What other choice do I have? I have no one else left. My Gran left me. She _left_. I shouldn't have been surprised, really, since she only ever stuck around for my father, and he died. He's dead. _Gone_."

Her lips twisted unkindly, " _So?_ " She scoffed, "I sent my bloody parents off to Australia when I took this assignment with Malfoy, and you know what? They didn't even hesitate to leave. I don't even get Christmas cards off them, and yet here I fucking am. I'm still living. Still breathing. Still fighting for both of those cruel luxuries."

Neville scowled.

Her chest heaved, threatening to burst as the anger boiled in her blood. "You should know as well as anyone what that feels like. You fought once, Neville. You _fought_." Hermione threw up her hands, exasperated. "That's all I'm asking you to do! Bloody _fight_."

He rolled his eyes, "That's all good and well, but that doesn't present me with a real solution to my problem – and it's a rather fucking massive problem."

"Yes," she snapped back. "It does give you a solution." Hermione reached for her purse, rifling through its contents for the bills she carried around at Draco's insistence and threw a couple hundred pounds down onto the crate, slamming the heavy glass on top of it. "That should be enough to get you to anywhere you want to go. I don't advise America. They're going through a bit of a rough patch right now." She shrugged, "Might I suggest Australia?"

"What?" Neville blinked.

Hermione didn't have time for this. She turned to descend the death trap of a ladder and called out over her shoulder, willing herself not to sway too much as the room spun.

"Just – Send a postcard, will you?"

He sputtered, "What? Just like that? You're letting me go?"

She shrugged, "A life for a life, Neville Longbottom. Looks like we're both still trying to live up to your father's exceedingly high expectations."

Without another glance back at the gangly man, Hermione left.

* * *

Hermione held her breath.

One. Two. Three.

She offered a polite smile, carefully curated not to display her anxiousness, and muttered an excuse to the toilettes. Narcissa's pale eyes bore into her as she stood from the sofa and adjusted her fitted skirt, but Hermione made sure to keep her shoulders relaxed and gaze genuine.

Outside of the sitting room, Hermione hurried toward the six-car garage under the Manor and pinched one of the sets of keys hanging by the door. Inhale. Exhale. "You can do this," she told herself. "It's not that difficult it's just a bloody car." But no matter how hard she turned over the keys, the engine did not make a sound. Frustrated, Hermione banged her head against the steering wheel and let out a muffled groan.

"Going somewhere?"

Hermione's head snapped up; her facial expression incapable of suppressing its reflex of surprise. Astoria leaned against the hood of the car, arms crossed, lips pursed, and brows arched. There was a moment of absolute silence before Hermione remembered to at least _try_ to come up with a formidable excuse for her sneaking around places she should not be and sitting in vehicles she definitely should not be sitting in.

"I - "

An accusatory, polished finger.

"Don't."

Astoria shook her head, then opened the driver's door and shoved Hermione over into the next seat. "Give me the keys, Penny." She said, holding out her gloved hand expectantly. Astoria registered the hesitation across Hermione's face and lurched over with lightning speed to take them from her. "Unbelievable," she muttered under her breath.

Hermione began to protest, come up with some reason for Astoria not to tell Narcissa or Draco what she'd been doing when the other woman flicked her wrist and the engine purred, coming to life under her privileged hands. Hermione gaped.

Astoria smirked askance, "Close your mouth, Penny. It's unladylike."

"I – But – You - "

"Yes, precisely." Astoria replied, pulling the jet-black car out of the garage and skidding out of the drive and into the deserted street. "If you think that I'm letting you go alone then I regret to inform you that you are sorely mistaken." She sniffed.

Hermione, who highly doubted the woman swerving through the busy streets of London and barely missing pedestrians actually regretted saying anything, blinked. "Wait – What are you - "

An exasperated sigh.

"Penny," she said, tearing her jewel-toned gaze from the road for a spare moment. "You are hardly as unpredictable as you wish yourself to be."

Which, to that, she felt a warm sensation flood over her; it was, quite simply, too accurate though she had hoped it wasn't for this particular event. "So?" Hermione drawled, wide darting across the open road before them as they tore through the city and headed toward the very destination Hermione had been keen to drive to herself.

"So," Astoria smirked. "The party doesn't start until we walk in," and Hermione felt her lips curl upwards into their usual smize in Astoria's company.

It was impossibly too easy to park and navigate the back corridors of the racetrack as two young, unaccompanied women. A small, innocent smile to a guard here. A confident, man-eater strut there to whichever high roller was watching. Then, Astoria and Hermione emerged into the club level where the Death Eaters faced off Karkaroff and his men.

The entire floor had been emptied save for the men from both opposing parties and the signs of a brewing fight was evident in the tension in the dead air between Draco and Karkaroff.

"Get your weapons out boys," Karkaroff sniped, not letting his dark eyes leave Draco's. "Load 'em up." There was a clatter of metal as guns were produced left and right from all of what appeared to be hired men – or loyal, but fiscally so – men from Bulgaria to support Karkaroff in his turf war.

Draco, meanwhile, simply inclined his chin upward. Several weapons glinted from the Death Eaters hands, and Hermione let out a choked gasp from behind the corner where she and Astoria were hiding because in all of her time alongside them, she had never witnessed them use more than a simple blade or the razor embedded in their newsboy caps. They never needed to, and that's what terrified her.

"Take your time," Karkaroff went on, grimacing. "Hold them up in the air, _momcheta_ , so they can see what we've got and why they should back the fuck down."

Theo scoffed, "All guns and no balls, eh, _brat_?"

Astoria tugged on the hem of Hermione's dress, "Oi," she whispered. "You brought a weapon, right?" as she produced a well-crafted revolver of her own, clicking the bullets into place. Hermione frowned. She had not brought a weapon. It was in the car. Under the seat where she'd stashed it the night Draco had held the family meeting to inform them all that today was the day he would be making a move on Igor Karkaroff (and that only the Death Eater men would be allowed to go).

At Hermione's grimace, Astoria closed her eyes and exhaled sharply. "Fuck," she swore under her breath. She shoved her behind her bony shoulders and narrowed her pale, green eyes at her with added vehemence. "Stay here," she quipped. Then, after letting her gaze flicker back and forth between Hermione and Draco, added, "I'm fucking serious, Penny. No sudden movements. If you die, then we're all bloody fucked."

Hermione forced a swallow down her throat.

"So," Blaise whispered to Draco – close enough to where both of the women were hiding for them to make it out – "What do we do now?" He paused, nodding once to Theo. "Just give the order, Draco."

He, however, had his frosty grey eyes trained on Karkaroff. "It doesn't have to be like this, Karkaroff," – one more sweep across the Bulgarians standing mere meters away – "But you know what? I'm bloody glad it is like this."

"You fucking Death Eater _scum_ ," the elder man bellowed, brandishing a rifle in his wrinkled hands. "You think you can just waltz in here and go against our agreement? You think you can dethrone _me_ from these fucking tracks?" His rotted teeth flashed. "I can't wait to bury you six feet under and dance all over your grave, Malfoy."

He leveled the end of his gun at Draco's head with a sneer, and that's when Hermione leapt into action.

At the time, she hadn't really thought it through. Which was evident enough when she stood between two dozen foreign men and a handful of her own with approximately twice as many guns aimed in her direction the moment that she placed herself in the breath of space between the two leaders.

All eyes were on her.

She _definitely_ had not thought this through, but then again, if Hermione Granger was one thing it was a clever woman, and clever women were adept and quick on their toes. Theoretically speaking. "I believe you call this no-mans-land," she said between heavy pants.

"Penny," Theo gasped, his icy blue eyes shifting uncomfortably to Draco.

"Shut up," she remarked offhandedly – "Penny," he repeated – "I said, _shut up_ ," she snapped, eyes blazing toward her men. "Listen," she began, heaving, "Most of you were in France. So, you all know what happens next," Hermione spat, gesturing to the armful of weaponry dripping from every man. "I have my family here," she hissed, shouting at Karkaroff's men; her men; all of them.

"You have all got somebody here waiting for you," Hermione went on. "Now," she almost-sobbed, meeting Draco's eye, "I'm wearing black in preparation." (She was not – she had been wearing a shift dress that Narcissa begrudgingly threw at her under some pretense of an act of kindness, though Hermione highly believed it to be more of an act of charity for the woman.)

Astoria appeared then, from the shadows, and stood beside Hermione, taking her hand in her own.

"I want you to look at me," Hermione begged the men. "I want you _all_ to look at me and think of who will be wearing black for you. Will it be your sister? Your wife? Your mother? _Who?_ " She paused, catching Theo's microscopic nod, then added, "Think of them."

"Think about them, right now," Astoria chimed in, her voice booming and demanding, ten times more so than Hermione's had been pleading. "Fight if you want to," she snapped. "But Penny here isn't moving anywhere," – her eyes blazing and unforgiving – "and neither am I."

Hermione met her gaze, and they shared a brief look of triumph before a loud bang echoed through the room at the same, precise second that the gun went off for the horses below. Hermione and Astoria immediately fell to the floor, assessing each other for possible damages before letting their eyes wander to the chaos that ensued throughout the room.

To Hermione, everything felt like it happened in slow motion.

Draco crumpled to the floor.

Theo and Blaise instinctively spun out with their weapons raised, looking to take down a few Bulgarians in a matter of seconds.

Graham clutched Draco's elbow and pulled him toward the back of their small group.

The Bulgarians standing behind Karkaroff laughed in low, mocking tones.

Then, Draco stood up and aimed his revolver at Karkaroff's head and pulled the trigger.

The other man went down with a thunderous boom, dead before he hit the marble floor. Draco exhaled loudly – Hermione noted it was not shaky and definitely not remorseful – and then spun the gun on his finger, letting it dangle from his thumb precariously.

"Enough!" He shouted, hands almost raised, but not quite as if he was too proud and had held too much of an upper hand to indulge in such things. Meanwhile, every single bloody Bulgarian gun was pointed at his head or his chest.

"Enough. Karkaroff and I fought this one-on-one," he supplied readily. "It's over. It won't be in the papers," he informed them. "The coppers who run this area are mine and they've already been vacated. There aren't any witnesses," he said, sweeping briskly past Hermione and Astoria, "Go home to your families. To your sisters, your wives and your mothers."

There wasn't much else to be said so, predictably, the Blugarians fled the scene and left Draco and his Death Eaters to clean up the mess. He grimaced, nodding once to Vince and Greg and Flint to dispose of the body and the blood.

"Nott," he murmured, eyes tearing away from the corpse to his mate. "I didn't see him."

"On it," Theo replied immediately, disappearing through a service exit.

His grey, stormy eyes fell on the two women staggering to their feet with a vehement, irritated gaze. He first glared at the shorter of the two, tired and unapologetic, "Why the fuck?" He spat, staring into her jewel-toned eyes. "What the bloody hell - "

"Shut the fuck up," Astoria snapped, crossing her arms. "Don't do that. Don't go sitting on your metaphorical fucking high horse, Draco. It doesn't suit you as much as you think it does. You put all of your lives in fucking danger with this bloody stunt and Penny and I here weren't going to stand for it." She huffed. "Did you ever stop to think about the consequences? That, perhaps, the people you left behind in your precious Manor give a damn about the lives of those you dragged with you? _Hm?_ "

She stormed away, pushing past Blaise's open arms with an angry bark.

Hermione, paralyzed, found Draco's eyes as mysterious and blank as the first time she'd seen him hold the end of a gun to her head all the way back when, and it terrified her. He didn't seem to register her presence without any break from reality and it unnerved her; so much so that the entire ride home she sat in silence with Astoria, ignoring him as violently as he ignored her.

When she realized that the shot Karkaroff sent toward Draco had made contact with his shoulder, she fought to sit next to him as they removed the bullet. At first, she volunteered to take it out herself but Theo had hastily shoved her aside and told her non-too-kindly that, "We've done this far too many times than we would have liked to over there."

Even Narcissa had been ushered out of Draco's study where Theo grabbed a suture kit and a bottle of vodka and got to work, but Hermione insisted. Her lips turned downward into a heavy scowl as Draco waned in and out of consciousness. "Theo," she said between gritted teeth. He didn't spare her a glance as Vince and Greg tried to escort her out.

" _Theo,_ " she growled, more vehemently this time. Hermione ripped her arms out of their grasps and plopped herself down in a seat beside Draco, helping Blaise and Graham to hold his arms and torso firmly in place.

"Fuck, fine!" He snapped, shooting her daggers. "Don't fucking lose it, though, Penny. I have enough to worry about with this one," Theo remarked angrily. The one in question would be the normally smug blond whose head lulled forward as he fought to stay awake through the blood loss.

Theo took several swigs of the vodka himself before handing it to Flint to hold and shoving his fingers and forceps into the open wound in Draco's shoulder. The minute he did, Draco roared back to life, straining against those holding him steady. His agonizing screams pricked tears at Hermione's eyes.

"Take it," Theo barked. "Come on, Malfoy, _take it,_ " More screams. Then, finally, the tiny metal monstrosity was procured and flicked into a dish on the desk. Theo sat back, taking a long shaky breath and then leaned forward with the bottle of liquor. "Have a drink," he commanded Draco.

He did so willingly, welcoming the promised numbness and licked the sheen of alcohol off his lips after several gulps. Draco held the bottle out for Theo to take back. The dark-haired man, though, turned around and muttered a quick, "Alright, deep breath," before twisting the bottle into the open wound.

The liquid dripped down Draco's bare chest as he gritted back a guttural moan, and Theo clamped a hand over the back of his sweat-soaked neck somewhat affectionately, if a little rough. "All done, mate," Theo promised with a wayward grin. "All done."

* * *

Screams echoed through the estate, but this time, Hermione did not recognize them. She dropped her half-eaten toast and gravitated toward the screams one cautious step after another. Out into the main hallway, down the main staircase, through a maze of corridors and behind a massive iron door to what appeared to be an entirely real dungeon, Hermione saw the most horrifying image.

Draco stood over a beaten and bloody man, tied to a rickety armchair, and wiped the blood off of his bruised knuckles with an old rag. He cracked his knuckles, wincing, and leaned toward the man. The other man's damp, dark hair slicked between Draco's fist as he forced his head up.

"Now," Draco drawled. "You know your precious protector is long dead, so don't expect any of your kin to be showing up to rescue your pathetic self any time soon. I doubt they are as unwise as him to underestimate me."

Hermione could not see the other man's face with his back to her, peering through a crack in the door, but she made out him spitting what was likely blood at Draco's feet. He stepped back and grimaced, then swung a calculated left hook at the captor's jaw.

"Fucking fool," he seethed. "You have no chance of making it out alive. _None._ "

A cramp found its way up Hermione's calf, twisting the muscle. She shifted, biting down on her lower lip to hide any noise, but much to her dismay, the door swung open from her movements. "Fuck," she swore under her breath, cursing her clumsiness as Draco's head snapped up like that of a cobra.

"Pen," he choked out.

"Err," she mumbled, flickering her gaze between the grotesque scene before her and the open door. Hermione fumbled to think of something to say, but no longer needed to when the other man craned his neck over his shoulder and shot her a crooked, deeply disturbing smile.

"Penne," he croaked, teeth flashing behind cracked and bloodied lips.

Hermione paused mid-step, frozen in place. Her spine tingled and tensed; a wave of heat flushing over her and sparking a flame that had been buried so deep she nearly recoiled at its sudden presence in the forefront of her mind. "Krum," she hissed.

His smile never faltered as she strode further into the room, fists clenched, and he looked back to Draco once she reached his side with a triumphant grin despite the chains and the torture. "Ah," he remarked in his heavy accent. "Now I understand. You want kill me. Because of she."

"Shut the fuck up," Draco snapped.

Hermione didn't expect him to look at her – he was too focused on the half-dead man before him – but she didn't expect him to completely lose control, either. It was as if a wild animal had been hibernating deep within him and it had finally been unleashed. The dark, dangerous glint in his eyes told her more than any curl of his lip or cut on his knuckle would. He was furious and suddenly unbeholden to his better judgement (as a matter of relatively speaking, of course). Next to her stood a man who, for the first real time since she'd met him, gave into his fiery temper.

His hands shot out, forcing Krum's chin upward as one closed around his throat, applying pressure to the carotid arteries. His other hand swiftly unchained Krum. He inhaled sharply as the other man cackled, flexing his arms. Hermione panicked, wondering what could possibly happen next with the brutish man – arguably twice the size of Draco if not more – free to fight back.

"Draco," she breathed, almost unaware that she had done so; as if she had virtually no control over her concern for him. Which, maybe she didn't.

Any trepidation over whether or not Draco would succumb any horrible blows was swiftly put to rest as his fists connected with the other man's face repeatedly. He fell unceremoniously to the ground with a loud boom, a grunt escaping his foreign lips as his body hit the stone floor.

Draco took hold of the chair, kicking a leg loose and took the splintered wood in his grasp. He swung and swung and _swung._ The shape of Krum's face – the very one that had haunted Hermione since the day she saw it – started to cave in and that's when Hermione woke from her dazed state.

"Draco," she called out, rushing to his side to try and pull him back. " _Draco!_ " she shouted.

He didn't look up. He didn't flinch. It seemed that he didn't even register she was there.

Hermione caught a glimpse of silver in his waistband and snatched it, sliding it comfortably between her fingers. It was no so unfamiliar to her now, thanks to Astoria's diligent training.

"Think of it as an extension of your hand," she had said, stepping behind Hermione to place her dainty hands overtop her own. "Like this," Astoria added, adjusting Hermione's grip. "There you go. See? It's not so different from your blade. Well – That's not true – it's _completely_ different. But you'll get used to it."

"Do I have to?" Hermione had asked, frowning over her shoulder at the petite brunette pressed up against her spine.

"I usually find it's better to be prepared than not to, wouldn't you agree?" Astoria questioned. She had nodded her assent because, undoubtedly so, she did agree. Hermione Granger, for what it's worth, was the sort of person who was always prepared, if she could help it.

Which is how, seeing the vacant and animalistic expression stain Draco's godlike face, she blinked and leveled the stolen gun at Krum's temple. Though, temple was a bit of a stretch because at this point his skull was so caved in that it was a wonder the man was still breathing. He was, and that's why – for both men's sake as well as her own peace of mind, she told herself – Hermione pulled the trigger.

The shot echoed through the dungeons and all throughout the house. Draco spun around to face her, and Hermione watched as reality dawned across his golden features, bringing them back to their former glory in a matter of seconds as he registered what had just happened.

His grey eyes flickered between the mutilated man at his feet and the smoking gun in her hand.

"There," Hermione croaked with a tone of finality. "All done."

* * *

 **A/N -** This chapter title comes from Aitch's song _Taste (Make it Shake)_ from the lines _it's crazy how I'm living, I lost a couple screws / blowing clouds up in the room / now I'm off into the moon_ xx


	7. Blame

**Chapter 7: Blame**

* * *

_24 December 1924_

_BELOVED BACHELOR MISSING: A REFLECTION OF HIS LIFE AND LEGACY_

_By Rita Skeeter_

_Mr. Draco Malfoy is an extraordinarily talented man, of that Great Britain has no doubt, but what is also interesting is that one of his skills is seeking out talent. His close friends are wonderful examples of this fact because all of the men he surrounds himself with are as distinguished and successful in their endeavors as he is._

_Mr. Blaise Zabini, Mr. Malfoy's financial advisor, is one of the most hired and well-connected men in his industry. Nearly every famous or half-famous individual with any sense has used Mr. Zabini's brilliant head for numbers, and on more than one occasion has also saved them from fiscal disaster. Mr. Graham Montague owns the third most profitable betting shops in London, following behind well-known entrepreneurs Mr. Xenophilius Lovegood and Mr. Amycus Carrow. Mr. Marcus Flint owns and operates the largest home for orphaned children in London and hires many of the boys once they are of age._

_Mr. Theodore Nott, Jr, however – the heir and now sole owner of Nott Holdings, the second most profitable business in Great Britain (second to Malfoy Company Limited, of course!) – is the most remarkable and most notable among Mr. Draco Malfoy's friends because of their lifelong friendship and mutual success. The pair have been constantly at each other's side and basking the public in their charismatic glow._

_It is from Mr. Nott that the_ Daily Prophet _expects to learn more about Mr. Draco Malfoy's disappearance, and ultimately to discover his whereabouts. We, as a nation, wait patiently for Mr. Malfoy's best mate and tireless protector to uncover the truth and share it with us._

I would describe Theo as more of a merciless protector, personally, but perhaps that's because I have been on both sides of his defense of Draco. He can be wicked and cruel, attacking you at your weakest point in a matter of seconds. He was always particularly gifted at that – at figuring out your weakest point.

What you wanted to keep hidden – to _protect_ – above all else.

I would like to think we might be best mates ourselves now, but there was definitely a time even after establishing myself among the Death Eaters that I doubted that was possible, and it had a lot to do with our secrets and fragile bridge of trust.

Honestly?

There were _far_ too many secrets among those who I thought were closest to me. Though, I suppose, that's a bit hypocritical seeing as I wasn't specifically forthcoming with truths either. Although, if anyone were to know where Draco would be right now perhaps Theo was the best guess. He was certainly the horse that the country wanted to put their money on in the race to find their missing, _beloved_ bachelor.

Then again, I sincerely hope that I am not too far behind in the race. Otherwise, Draco will surely be dead soon, and I don't think I can stomach that. In fact, as I've likely proven more than once already, I would readily trade my life for his if the opportunity arose.

* * *

_13 February 1923_

Hermione was not the superstitious type.

Superstitions were irrational practices based in ignorance, a positive belief in fate or magic, and a misunderstanding of science or causality. It was for all three reasons that she chose not to indulge in the supernaturality of such behaviors.

When she won the first hand of poker the other night against Draco, Astoria and Theo, her brain did not immediately relate her novice status to her chance of winning and deem the result to be beginner's luck. When a black kitten sprinted across her feet in a hurry to cross the same road she walked along, Hermione did not suddenly fear a witch to be haunting her in the form of a starved feline eager to find food in the dirty streets of London.

However, Hermione was also not the type to believe in coincidences.

There was an odd feeling, a tingling sensation in the base of her neck, that stirred a subconscious fear in her. Fingers of ice reached out to wrap around her throat, crushing it with a frozen pressure. Hermione blinked and blinked, trying to clear her vision as it succumbed to blurriness, fading until there was nothing but a stark white light before her. In a flash, dark tendrils loomed toward her and dark, slit eyes laughed down at her.

" _You are the price_ ," they said to her, echoing and bouncing around in her empty, thick skull. " _You are the price, and he must pay. He must._ "

The darks orbs floating above her transformed, and the tendrils surrounding them bled into a sea of red, encompassing her. The crimson color deepened to a sickening burgundy, sticking to her subconscious mind and flooded her senses, drowning her. A heavy weight buried her further and further, and she choked on the gurgling red. The blood and the pain and the crushing of her mind. Numbing her, ridding her of her senses.

" _You have to make sacrifices._ " A low voice grumbled in her ear, scraping against it. " _So beautiful. Such a beautiful sacrifice._ "

The pressure in her lungs increased ten-fold, taking with it her last breath, and Hermione bolted upright, inhaling the still morning air of the quiet bedroom. Terror bubbled in her veins, boiling over; she fought to regain her breath, to take control of her erratically constricting lungs, bursting against her ribcage.

"Penny?"

Draco groggily rubbed at his eyes, and Hermione's panic momentarily subsided at the sight of him wiping away the sleep embedded in his heavy lids, reminiscing the nights when it was he who woke her with screams of terror and the horrors of nightmares too close to reality to allow the body to fall easily back into subconsciousness.

"Hey," he murmured, snaking his arms around her waist and pulling her back down into the sheets, tangling their limbs together. His lips brushed across her temple, placing a gentle kiss over her eyelids as they fluttered shut. "Do you want to talk about it?"

She did not.

As much as Draco had come to trust her and confide in her, she still knew he was as venomous as a viper and as cold-blooded as well. He would not understand, and more importantly, he would think her weak if he knew what it was that she dreamt of. The blood and the pain. The violence and the _murder_.

"No," she sighed, burying her face in the crook of his neck and inhaling the familiar scent of him.

Much to her relief, he let it go. Normally, he pushed her. Draco enjoyed testing her limits, and under any other circumstances, she quite believed that she liked when he pushed her. When he challenged her and drove her nearly insane, practically to the point of relinquishing all control. A war raging within her; to match him – to _not break_ – as well as to stand her ground and oppose him – to _fight back_.

The even rhythm of Draco's breathing returned swiftly, and Hermione lay there, wrapped in the fleeting safety of his embrace, and counted her breaths until the sun shone through a gap in the curtains. Hermione disentangled herself from him and slid out of his bed, covering herself in a heavy robe and tiptoeing out of the room.

It was a bit early for breakfast and since it was a workday, most of the Manor was emptied of its occupants. Pansy and Daphne were still in school, finishing up their last semester. Marcus was off doing who knows what with the youth of the city under the Death Eaters influence, and Graham was probably not far behind him even though he now had to split his time between the boys and the racetrack. Blaise had left for Birmingham for the weekend for one of his high-profile clients, and Astoria was away again as well, on another errand for Narcissa though Hermione still had no idea what it entailed.

Neither Astoria nor Narcissa, despite how close they'd gotten with Hermione over the last year, had been very forthcoming with information. At least, as far as Hermione knew, no one else in the household – not even Draco – was in on their activities.

Which left the dining table a rather despondent sight as Hermione swept in, dressed in a simple pencil skirt and blouse, and took her usual seat across from Theo. She murmured a quick, "Thank you, Dobby," as he scampered out of the kitchen with a fresh bowl of fruit, boiled eggs, and buttered toast.

"It is Dobby's pleasure, Miss Penny," he offered, backing away to return to the kitchens.

"You know," she said, glancing up to meet Theo's amused expression. "I think he's the only member of the staff that actually likes me." She bit off a piece of toast. "The others tolerate me. Except Kreacher," Hermione frowned. "He openly _despises_ me."

Theo's pale blue eyes glinted as he turned the page of the morning newspaper. "Dobby likes everyone, so that's hardly surprising that he's taken with you. Especially given your close relations with his master. Kreacher, however," he went on, his lips twisting into a cruel smirk, "that is _very_ telling of your character, Penny."

She glowered at him, "What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means," he taunted, selecting a grape from the bowl with meticulous precision. "That Kreacher has always been known to detect a bad apple among those close to Draco. He has a sixth sense for it, if you will."

Hermione grimaced, chewing on the toast and forcing it down her dry throat, reaching for her tea as she replied. "Sixth sense? Are you telling me you think he has some magical predisposition, and that you _believe_ it?" She scoffed, willing her tone to remain unafraid. "I thought you were cleverer than that, Theo."

He shrugged, "It's not about cleverness, Penny, but about instinct."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest the validity of his argument but was interrupted by Greg and Vince making a fuss of something on the far end of the table. They quieted down at Theo and Hermione's subsequent glares in their direction, and then excused themselves and left to create noise in some other room in the enormous Manor.

"Astoria told me that Kreacher doesn't care for her much, either," Hermione noted, leaning back in her chair and cradling her cup of tea.

"Satan," Theo said, pursing his lips. "I can't say that many people in this household like her. Still, what's your point?"

"Perhaps, he's sexist," she replied coolly.

He shook his head, arching a dark brow at her pointedly. "He loves Narcissa. Would die for her, I think. So, perhaps, he's not."

"That's bias," she pointed out, her own brows lifting as he shrugged. "Kreacher used to work for her for – bloody hell, I don't know – forever, I guess."

"True," Theo admitted. "He's always been loyal to the Black family, long before Narcissa was born, but I still think it paints quite a picture that he should come to regard everyone else in this family with respect other than you and Astoria."

Hermione scoffed, "Perhaps, then, it's merely the fact that Kreacher himself is in love with Draco and doesn't wish to see anyone else on his arm."

Theo's icy blue irises narrowed, "Interesting." She waited for him to continue, knowing that he would, but wished her teacup suddenly resembled that of Blaise's usual non-tea. "Are you telling me, Penny, that you are in love with Draco?"

"I - " Hermione gaped, then sat up straighter, pursing her lips. "I was simply trying to make a point, Theodore, there is no need to take everything I say so literally."

"If you say so," he remarked, the features of his face softening as he stood and cleared his throat. He smirked at her, calling over his shoulder as he left the dining room, "Well, I have places to be and people to see, so I'll catch you around later, Penny. Give Draco my love for me, will you?"

"Fuck you," she retorted mockingly.

His smirk deepened as he turned the corner, disappearing from sight.

Minutes later, Draco came running into the dining room, slightly out of breath and with a few blond pieces of his hair falling into his forehead rather than slicking back with the others. His grey eyes darted frantically around the room, but ultimately settled on her.

"Theo?" He asked.

"Just left," she replied, gesturing further down the hallway. "If you're quick, you should be able to catch him or at the very least follow him to wherever he's going."

Draco nodded curtly, then took off a brisk pace, leaving Hermione to be the only person in the dining room once again. It was interesting, she thought, that last year all of the men were cooped up in the Manor for months and months while Draco waited for news on Neville Longbottom.

Now, Draco had declared the missing person of theirs to be vanished enough for them to go back to their business as usual, and while Hermione had said nothing – nor even hinted at the truth – of Neville's whereabouts, she lamented being stuck in the Manor most days. She missed running around for the Death Eaters; overseeing the company's legal errands with Narcissa and furthering their connections in the city, then reporting back to Draco with any significant findings at the end of the day.

Hermione still accompanied Draco and Theo on some of their activities, though less so now than when she first started her assignment, which she knew was a good thing because it meant they no longer felt the need to drag her along to keep an eye on her. But still. Of course, Hermione hardly thought of her living with them as an assignment anymore. In fact, she'd all but forgotten her initial mission and her life outside of the Death Eaters, and outside of Draco.

Her notes, still hidden in the Room Noir, had been untouched for over a year now. Not since that first night she spent enveloped in Draco's arms, relenting all control to the inevitably of them. Of him and her.

Was it really that simple?

Was it really that _easy_?

Hermione closed the book she'd been attempting to read and looked out over Narcissa's gardens, beginning to bloom in the early spring, and pondered her fate. She'd ultimately given in to her position beside Draco and knew that it meant she would have to relinquish her identity as Hermione Granger as well as her allegiance to the police. There was always the possibility that Neville had not taken her advice and would come back to strip her of her secrets, but that seemed unlikely.

The Death Eaters still had plenty of other enemies, but they had accepted her, trusted her, and by now she practically _one of them_. Which was more than she could say for Shacklebolt or Fudge, and really how difficult was it to check in on an agent who had been undercover for over three years now?

* * *

Hermione was still deep in her thoughts hours later when a loud bang boomed from down the hall. She tossed the book carelessly to the floor and took off, following the eruption of voices and telltale sounds of a fight.

She turned a corner and ran right into something, smacking into the solid form and rebounding on the floor. Hermione glanced up to see that she had not run into _something_ but rather _someone_ , and someone who was peering down at her with angry, slits for eyes. She gulped, "Theo?"

He bent down, folding his long limbs to help her stand, and took hold of her elbow. Her forearm cried from the intensity of his grip, and her heart thudded erratically from the stone-cold look on his face. It was a brutally horrible as when she first saw him face Potter in the streets, venom spitting from between his curled lips.

"Penny," he exhaled, leaning in close as he leaned over her sitting on the rich, carpeted floors. "Listen to me." Hermione gasped at the ice in his tone. "Listen to me. Draco is furious, murderous even. Do you hear me?" She blinked, and he shook her violently. "Do you hear me? He is looking to kill."

Hermione stuttered, "What happened – Why – "

"The Death Eaters have to come first." He said, ignoring her. "They have to come first, and they will _always_ come first no matter what else we may want individually. The needs of the group outweigh the needs of the individual. No matter what I want – What Draco wants – that will always be true. The Death Eaters must prevail."

"Theo, I don't understand – "

" _Listen to me, Penny_ ," he hissed, gripping both of her arms and digging his fingers into her skin unkindly. "Draco does not like being taken advantage of – being lied to. None of us do, but he is the leader of the Death Eaters so – he can do what he wants, do you hear me? – he can banish one of us. _Kill_ one of us."

Hermione swallowed, grimacing at the implications.

"He _will_ kill one of us." Theo assured her, sending a shiver up her spine. "He doesn't take well to liars and pretenders and fraternizing with the enemy. To be guilty of any of those is a death wish. He won't hesitate to take out the perpetrator, no matter what it costs him. No matter how much it _hurts_ him. He will do it, and he won't blink when he pulls the trigger."

"Why – "

" _Penny_ ," Theo sighed, expectantly. "You're clever, impossibly clever, and I know you know what I'm talking about. It won't matter who you are to him," he spat. "Draco won't let it go. He won't forgive any deception made against him, because it doesn't matter who you are, only what you've done."

Hermione bit her lip at the harshness of his tone and the excruciating grip of his hold on her. "Theo – " She began frantically, but he shook his head and let her go roughly. He stood and glanced briefly over his shoulder, then took off down the hall without another word.

She blinked, righting herself and shaking at what he alluded to.

"Miss Penny," Dobby said, cowering behind her when she spun around to look away from Theo's rapidly retreating figure. "Mr. Malfoy requests your audience in his study," he cleared his throat, averting his gaze. "Right now."

Hermione swallowed forcefully, tasting copper on her tongue and the bitterness of her reality.

Draco knew.

He _knew_.

That was the only explanation for the turn of events and Theo's rushed attempt to warn her what she would be walking into. Hermione fumbled around her pockets and resented not carrying any weapon on her for she feared what version of Draco she was about to face based on Theo's unforgiving gaze. His words rang in her ears as she trailed behind Dobby toward her certain doom.

_The Death Eaters have to come first –_

_The needs of the group outweigh the needs of the individual –_

_It doesn't matter who you are, only what you've done –_

How lucky could she possibly be to evade her identity being discovered _twice_? Not very lucky, she ruled as Dobby opened the door to let her into the smoke-filled room, whiskey and cinnamon overwhelming her senses the second she stepped over the threshold.

"Draco," she began cautiously, her gaze settling on the pale, silvery strands glowing in the setting sun.

"Have a seat," he said, turning around to face her. "We need to talk." His expression was impossible to read, and even his eyes gave nothing away.

Impassivity spread across his features, and where she would have rather seen a clenched jaw, a curled fist, or a downturned grimace, she saw nothing. At least if there was tension in his muscles, a glint in his eyes, or _anything_ resembling the fury that Theo claimed Draco was riddled with, then Hermione would be able to gauge just how fucked she was. But there was nothing, not even a twitch of his lip, that clued her into the rage that awaited her.

He sparked a cigarette, then tossed the pack to her. Hermione's fingers twitched towards them as his eyes bore into her, commanding her to take one and join in the cloudy haze surrounding them. She did as she was silently told, and sparked a light of her own, taking a long drag.

It did nothing for the anxiety chilling her nerves, making them sensitive to every motion Draco made.

"You know," he said, the words leaving his mouth as his eyes stared at the ceiling. "I would like to believe that I'm not a stupid man." He inhaled sharply, then exhaled several rings of smoke. "I would like to believe that I am not easily fooled. That I am not easily taken advantage of, and yet, here I am." His chin dropped so that his stormy grey gaze focused on her, sitting uncomfortably erect in the chair opposite his desk.

Hermione let out a shaky breath, pinching the cigarette tightly to keep her fingers from trembling and relaying her fear for him to read and analyze plain as day.

"You believe you have been deceived?" She asked, maintaining a level tone in her voice despite the crippling dread clawing at the back of her throat. "By who?"

Draco blinked at her, saying nothing.

He sat up in his chair, unbuttoned his suit jacket and stood to lean forward over his desk. It was impeccably tidy, as were all of his spaces, and Hermione caught the glimpse of silver in his waistband as he reached for the crystal decanter and two glasses, sliding one across to her.

"It's funny," Draco said, not looking humored in the slightest. "You think you know someone," he went on, his gaze glossing over as he sipped at the whiskey. Hermione held tightly onto her glass, its contents remaining untouched. "You think you know someone." He repeated. "You get to know them, and you believe everything they tell you about them because they seem genuine. You come to trust them completely."

Hermione felt all of the air leave her lungs as his eyes darkened, pupils dilating.

Draco finished the scorching, amber liquid in his glass and slammed it onto the hard wood of his desk, and Hermione flinched at the violent movement. His face shifted then, taking on the picture of wrath – of blood and pain and _hurt_.

She feared it, feared what it meant, and shifted uncomfortably in the armchair, wishing there was something she could say that would make him understand. That would save her life.

"You _trust_ them," he snapped. "You put your life in your hands, and you give a part of yourself to them. All for them to turn around and _lie_ to you." Draco's lips curled, teeth poking out like fangs on a snake, poised to sink into their prey and instill their venom. "They lie to you." He snarled.

Hermione bit down on her lip hard to stop it from visibly trembling.

"Draco, I – "

"They lie about who they are – who they _really_ are – and you feel like a fool. You realize at that moment that you don't really know them at all." He said, venting over her quiet interruption. "That, perhaps, you never did. That everything they told you was a lie, a mask made to conceal their true identity." Draco hissed, dabbing the butt of his cigarette forcefully into the ashtray. Crushing it unnecessarily. "They lied to you. They lied about who they are, what they stand for, and their entire being."

His grey eyes snapped up from the ash to meet her wary, teary eyes trained on him. "Don't you hate that?" He asked rhetorically. "Doesn't that just _unnerve_ you when you discover something like that?

"I didn't – I only – "

"Because," Draco growled, cutting off her feeble attempt to defend herself. "How the fuck can you trust someone after that? After all of the lies and the betrayal and – It's just bloody ridiculous – It's fucking insane to think that the trust can be repaired."

"Draco," she tried, but he shook his head, standing up to pace behind his desk, one hand lowering to the handle of the revolver in his waistband.

"It pains me." He said, wracking a hand through his hair and spinning to face her, the gun now aimed lazily in her direction. "I loathe unnecessary violence. I don't want to have to do this. I really fucking don't, but I have to." His eyes glinted as he stared at her, tilting his head and exhaling a rush of air. "I have to."

He took a deep breath, his head dropping to inspect the heavy metal object in his grasp. "Death may be the greatest of all human blessings," he quoted.

"Socrates," she choked out.

Hermione was not the superstitious type, nor did she believe in coincidences, but suddenly she wondered if she were wrong to hold that mentality. Because she was quite sure that her luck had all but run out and the fact that it was Friday the 13th was either a cosmic joke or a seriously ill-fated date for her.

Hermione shot to her feet, "Draco, please, I didn't – I've changed – Everything has changed now and – " She stepped cautiously forward and the glass slipped from her grasp to shatter at her feet. She winced from the impact of the tiny shards into her pale skin.

"Fuck," Draco swore, reaching out to steady her by the sleeve of her blouse. "Be careful." He blinked at her incredulous expression and pursed his lips. "Wait, what were saying? What changed? What the fuck are you talking about?"

Hermione gaped at him, blinking and rolling her bottom lip between her teeth as she struggled to gather her wits. Her head was heavy on her shoulders, but the heat of his forefinger slipping under the thin silk of her blouse to hook around her wrist jolted her back to her senses.

"What – What are _you_ talking about?" She insisted, letting him guide her carefully away from the shattered glass and to the other side of his desk where he sat her in his chair. Draco knelt at her feet and slipped her heels off of her bare feet, tending to them and searching for any lingering shards.

"Theo," he admitted, the dangerous hint of his temper flaring back up in his tone.

"Theo?" Hermione repeated, flabbergasted.

"Yes," he growled. Then, acquiescing that her legs were fine, rocked back on his heels and stood over her. His figured loomed ominously with the setting sun turning the sky from warm hues to cold, dark ones behind him. Draco leaned forward, bracing himself on the arms of the chair. "Isn't it always fucking Theo? Bloody fucking thorn in my side. We're brothers – _brothers –_ and he fucking lied to me. I don't – I can't – I feel like I don't even know him anymore."

Then, miraculously, Hermione realized that perhaps she was incredibly lucky, and that Draco effectively had no idea of her secret, of her true identity. That, in all his frantic and foreboding phrasing, Theo had been referring to _himself._

Hermione blinked, searching Draco's face. "What did he do?"

Draco bent his head, brushing his lips across her cheekbone. "Who," he murmured, his mouth hot on her ear; his stubble prickling her cheek. "The question you should be asking is _who_ did Theo do."

* * *

"Draco," Hermione huffed, struggling to keep up with him as he tore through the corridors of his Manor. "Draco, _slow down._ You don't want to do this. It's Theo – he's your best mate, arguably your other half, and I know you don't want to hurt him."

"On the contrary, Penny," he gritted out, turning sharply into the foyer. "I want to more than simply hurt him. I want him to feel the sting of the betrayal that he so casually bestowed on me." He thrust out his hands and the men standing beside the grand front doors opened them up for him without hesitating to question the murderous glare on their master's face. Hermione trailed behind as he descended the stairs outside.

"Draco, _stop_ \- " But she could see that trying to reason with him was a lost cause as he stormed across the front lawn and bit her tongue in frustration. She hurried to catch up to him, eyes widening as she saw Theo pulling out of the garage in one of the family cars.

"You are a right fucking bastard you know that, don't you?" Draco roared, slamming his hand on the hood of the car. Theo flicked his wrist, stilling the engine and leapt out with his hands up in evident surrender.

"Draco," he pleaded, eyes wide and panicked. Hermione stood frozen in place as Draco didn't falter, leveling his revolver at the center of his forehead and pressing it into the skin between Theo's furrowed brows. "Draco listen to me," Theo begged, his chest heaving. "Draco, you don't have to do this."

"I do," he quipped. "You fucking _know_ that I do."

"No," Theo replied, his pale blue eyes flickering to the end of the gun before meeting the stormy gleam on its other end. "You aren't your father, Draco. You are the leader of the Death Eaters but that doesn't mean you have to lead like him. You aren't _him_."

"Shut the fuck up, Theo," Draco snarled, his hand remarkably unwavering. "Shut _up_."

"You aren't him," Theo repeated. "You don't have to do this."

"What if I want to?" Draco countered, stepping forward to dig the cold metal further into Theo's skull. Outstandingly, the other man didn't wince; didn't even flinch. "You betrayed me," he snapped, his lip curling angrily, once again baring his teeth. "You _lied_ to me, Theo. You fucking lied! We were brothers and now I don't even know who you are anymore!"

Theo swallowed, his Adam's apple bouncing and protruding against the fragile skin of his throat. "We _are_ brothers," he corrected, drawing the words slowly and purposefully from his cracked lips. "You know me, Draco. I'm still the same fucked up kid who ran around the stuffy Manor with you and got into shit we shouldn't have gotten into. I'm still the same bloody mess who stood by your side – who fought in the fucking war with you – and saved your _life_." Theo exhaled; jaw set stubbornly. "You know me. You can trust me."

"How?" Draco bellowed. His silver brows furrowed in open distraught and his eyes flashed, displaying for the first-time what Hermione saw was anguish at the target of his intended bullet. "How can I possibly fucking trust you? You're sleeping with the bloody enemy. The Death Eaters enemy," he retorted, fingers curling and uncurling at his side. "The Death Eaters come first."

"I – I couldn't – You don't understand." Theo beseeched, sensing the shift in Draco's confidence. "I had no _choice_." – a strangled laugh followed by, "Are you fucking kidding me, Theo?" – "It's not like I intended for this to happen. For any of it, but you don't understand. I – I can't let it go. I can't look away. I can't pretend like it doesn't mean anything."

Hermione saw the slightest quiver in Draco's grip and took the opportunity to insert herself between the two men, slowly wrapping her fingers around the barrel of the gun. "Draco," she murmured, trying to coax him away from the edge. If his temper were to ignite – to truly go off – then there would be no going back. No undoing whatever evil ensued.

She knew this time she would not be quick enough to aide Theo in avoiding a bullet. If she could help it, which astoundingly she thought she could from the rigidness of Draco's spine and the cloudiness in his eyes, then she would stop the animal in him from lashing out.

Besides, she didn't really believe that Draco wanted Theo dead.

"Draco," Hermione said again, careful to keep her tone light and sweet. Lest he presume she was openly siding with Theo (which would be inadvisable in this situation even if she did know what Theo was guilty of). "Let's go inside. Come on," she managed to lower the gun all the way out of Theo's range and slid the heavy object from his grasp. Hermione clicked the safety into place and slid the cool metal into her own waistband. "Come on, Draco. I need to lie down. Won't you come with me?"

She was careful not to mention Theo's name or even acknowledge his continued existence beside them and was unsurprised to see that her tactic worked. The tension in Draco's shoulders slowly subsided as he tore his gaze from their friend. He blinked and the enchanting silver hue returned, flickering around the soft features of her face, settling on what she presumed was a stray curl poking out of her updo.

"Let's go inside," she murmured, tugging his stiff arm and leading him slowly, step by step, toward the front of the house.

It had almost worked.

 _Almost_.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Theo snapped, bringing their attention back to him and toward the person he was talking to. "Did you _run_ here? You bloody lunatic."

A head of dark, messy hair emerged into the driveway accompanied by a set of memorable, jewel-toned eyes and parched, gasping lips. "Well," Potter huffed. "It's not like I had much of a choice. The Order isn't exactly rolling in horses or cars," – he gestured to the gleaming, new vehicle Theo stood in front of – "that I could steal for a quicker getaway."

Hermione watched the two men interact and noticed a shift in their usual banter, specifically an element that was missing as well as one that had been added or was otherwise less obvious, and her jaw nearly hit the floor.

_The Death Eaters have to come first –_

_The needs of the group outweigh the needs of the individual –_

_It doesn't matter who you are, only what you've done –_

"You must have a fucking death wish, Potter," Draco snapped, ripping his hand from Hermione's grasp and bounding toward the two men. "This is un- _fucking_ -believable, Theo, and if you think I'm just going to stand here and take this bullshite, then you have another thing coming!"

He stomped further down the drive, his hand instinctively flying toward his waistband. Draco stopped abruptly, spinning to glare at Hermione. "Penny," he said between gritted teeth. "Give my bloody gun," and when she hesitated, eyes flickering to the weapon in her waistband, he turned back around and pulled a blade from his sock. "Fuck it," he swore, "Fuck it all."

_You're sleeping with the bloody enemy –_

"Draco," Theo snarled, stepping between Draco and Potter. "Don't,"

"Oh, no, Theo," he replied coldly. "We're way fucking past that."

Theo, however, didn't move. He held his ground, slamming one hand back to push Potter behind him and holding out the other with his palm out, ready for Draco's advance. "Don't come any closer," he warned. "I don't want to hurt you and I know you don't want to hurt me, but if you so much as touch one bloody, greasy hair on his fucking head - "

_I can't let it go –_

_I can't look away –_

_I can't pretend like it doesn't mean anything –_

"Stop!" Hermione shouted, slipping the gun into her palm and sprinting between the men once again. She huffed, pointing the gun – its safety still on because she didn't want to accidentally injure or kill one of these idiots – between Draco and Theo. "Just – Fucking _stop_ ,"

"Penny," Draco hissed, "Lower the bloody gun and stay the fuck out of this."

"No," she snapped, stubbornly setting her foot down.

"Penny," he said again, disapproval dripping from every syllable. "This doesn't concern you - "

"Like bloody hell it doesn't!" She protested. Hermione eyed Theo, who looked poised to throw a punch but just as unwilling to do so, and then unwrapped one hand from around the handle of the revolver and shoved it against Draco's puffed chest. "Go back inside."

"Pen," he growled.

"No," Hermione replied, irate. She slammed her palm against his chest again and flicked her wrist, waving him away. "Go inside the _fucking_ house, Draco. _Now_ ," she seethed, gesturing toward the Manor with the gun.

Draco scowled, clenching his fists as he shifted his cold, narrowed eyes between Hermione and Theo. Finally, he turned on his heel and stormed back toward the Manor. When he stormed through the front door, slamming it behind him with a thunderous boom, the tension in Theo's shoulder relaxed minutely as he lowered his hand from Potter's chest to button his suit jacket.

"Well," he drawled, glancing between the bushy-haired fury and the disheveled mess on either side of him. "That went well."

"Shut the fuck up," Hermione snapped, running a hand through her wild curls, let loose from all of the chaos. "We'll talk later, just get rid of him." she promised Theo, then sighed and looked longingly over to the Manor. "I really do need to lie down, now."

"Get rid of him?" Theo frowned, sparing a furious look at Potter before addressing her on his behalf.

"Hey, listen - " Potter began to say, stepping forward.

"Shut up," Hermione and Theo both snapped at him simultaneously.

She huffed and dug for a cigarette, lighting it and taking a long drag before settling her chestnut, tired eyes on Theo again. "He can't stay here." She told him. "He's a bloody Order member, Theo, and we certainly can't have him wandering about the Manor and getting his dirty nose into whatever happenstances occur. Not to mention Draco will kill him – and _you_ – on sight if he sees him inside."

"He won't see him," Theo asserted, fists clenched. "Penny, he has to stay you don't understand. He – the Order - "

"I left them," Potter inputted sharply, cutting off Theo's rough attempt to relay the same information. This time, neither Hermione nor Theo tried to silence him, and from that he went on. "I left the Order. They weren't – I found out – Well, I can't trust them anymore."

Hermione scoffed, "And you came here because you trust the Death Eaters?" Her eyes narrowed as she exhaled another puff of smoke. "Why?" She pressed. "Why can't you trust them?"

Potter shook his head, "I know the way this lifestyle works. Information is key, and I don't plan to divulge it until the opportune moment."

"Bloody hell," Hermione groaned. "Would a gun to your head be the opportune moment you had in mind?" She quipped. The other boy's jewel-toned eyes – much more emerald than Astoria's paler shade – flickered down to the revolver in her waistband, and Hermione sighed impatiently. "I'm not going to shoot you. I believe I've proven that particular task of little interest to me, haven't I?"

Theo nodded along, glancing at the other man. She noticed his features softened ever so slightly upon looking at the untidy, soot-covered man. "If Penny wanted you dead, you would be." He affirmed – Potter scoffed, "Lovely," under his breath – and added, "She could have easily stood back and let Draco loose on us, so…" He turned to her then, blue eyes blazing. "Thank you, I guess."

"Welcome," she sniffed. "Now," Hermione sighed, flicking the ash away and tucking the butt into her pocket to dispose of later – not on Narcissa's precious lawns – "If you're going to be hoarding an Order member inside the Manor, then I want nothing to do with it."

"Didn't you just - "

"- so I'm going to go inside myself now and find that abominable blond," Hermione continued, ignoring Potter's outburst, "and make sure he hasn't gone and done anything extraordinarily idiotic." She turned on her heel, then called out over her shoulder, "Do with him what you will, and don't be stupid enough to hide him in your own rooms, Nott."

Theo nodded once, then grimaced at Potter, rolling his eyes. "Fucking hell, are you always this reckless?"

In turn, Potter's eyes twinkled with mischief as a smirk spread across his lips, "Only for you, Nott."

"Fuck you," Theo snapped, though the intensity of the statement was little more than affectionately reprimanding.

* * *

"You had no fucking right," Draco snarled as Hermione stepped into his office. It had taken several minutes of searching the house for her to find him, and the initial bout of exhaustion reverted to anger, bubbling in her at the near-empty bottle of whiskey in his hand. "How fucking _dare_ you."

"Why are you so upset with me, Draco?" She countered, her face hardening. "Is it because I did what needed to be done? Or is it more childish than that?" Hermione snapped, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at him with equal ferocity that he directed at her. "Is it because I stole your precious little gun and ordered you back inside? Is that it? _Hm_?"

"Fuck you," he seethed. His lips were wet, slicked with the spiced liquid, droplets spewing from them as he spoke to her. "Fuck you, Penny."

"You want to be angry with me, Draco?" Hermione taunted, stepping towards him and wrestling the bottle out of his hands, slamming it on the mahogany desk. "Then be fucking angry with me! You claim that I'm your equal, but you hate when I act like it, so what are you going to do about it?"

"I loathe you," he spat, curling one hand behind her neck and tilting her head up to look at him. His grey eyes flashed with fury, with want and with hatred all at once. "Don't you see what you've done to me? Look at what you've made me, Pen, _look_."

The golden, godlike features of his face were contorted by a scorching, inescapable flame. The fire behind his eyes sparked and flared, luring her into their depths and threatening to burn her. To ruin her. To make her into nothing but ash lost in a breeze.

She welcomed it.

Hermione felt a smile creep across her face, twisting her lips upward.

"I'm looking," Hermione assured him. "I'm looking, Draco, and you know what?" She rolled onto the balls of her feet, placing her lips less than a breath away from his. "I like what I see."

"I loathe you," he repeated, his lips brushing against his as the words slipped out.

"You," _my bright, burning sun,_ she thought. "Will be the death of me."

Draco tangled his hands in her hair, tugging forcefully at the curls as he pressed his lips roughly to hers, stealing her breath and taking it for himself. "Good," he said coldly.

His touch burned, searing her skin, and it reminded her of the unmistakable heat between them in the beginning. Before his fingers turned gentle and awestruck. This was a different kind of worship, Hermione realized. This was power wrapped in want and driven by need. Pure, raw, _need_.

He backed her up to the desk, pushing her against it and sinking his teeth into her bottom lip. Hermione tasted copper, then felt behind her for the edge of the desk, hoisting herself up on it to stop it from cutting into her spine crudely. She lifted her hips to wrap them around his, and slid her tongue along his, reveling in the dizzying taste of spiced liquor and copper.

Hermione woke up that morning unsure of herself; unsure of the person she felt she was becoming under the influence of the Death Eaters. She'd killed a man, and she'd resolutely turned her back on the police and her previous life without much hesitation. But now? Now she was sure. She was sure as hell that she liked who she was becoming.

She had _power_.

She had power and strength and value. Hermione was no longer a pawn to be commanded around the board with little refusal and little control. She was a queen. She was a motherfucking _queen_. Hermione had the power, and the audacity as she was recently learning, to control her own movements and to take them freely, with the whole board at her disposal. The other team would no longer treat her as disposable, as little more than a nuisance, because now they would see her. They would see her – a queen standing beside a king – and they would fear her; they would tremble at her threats and they would know that if she wished to come after them, their days were numbered.

There was no doubt in her mind anymore, she was sure, of her place.

Her place was beside Draco, with the Death Eaters, and it let something in her bloom.

Hermione dug her hands in Draco's hair, sifting through the silvery strands and holding them hostage between her fingers as his slid up her thigh, pushing up the fabric of her skirt up past her hips. His knuckles brushed against her inner thigh, and Hermione tensed, high on anticipation.

Draco leaned back enough to slip his palm against her cunt, and Hermione shivered under his touch. "You drive me mad," he breathed, hot air against her cheek. "You get away with so fucking much, you know. I would never tolerate it from anyone else." His finger slid between her lips, caressing her clit, causing her breathing to hitch and the ball of energy building inside of her to build and build.

"I know," she choked out, letting her head fall back and her eyes shut.

"Look at me, Penny, fucking _look_." His voice was gravely and rough, just as his hands were; one rubbing relentlessly against her clit and the other buried once again in her curls, tugging them so tightly and snapping her head up to meet his dark gaze. "Look at what you've made me. Look how I come undone for you," he rasped between gritted teeth.

His hold on her tightened, and the ball coiled, ready to spring with a flick of his dexterous fingers. Instead of bringing her to raw release, however, he pulled his fingers out of her and gripped her hipbone. Hermione let out something between a gasp and a moan as the ball sat frustratingly poised to release; incapable of breaking the barrier.

She thrust her hips against his, desperate for friction, and bit down on her lip. "Draco," she whined, letting her hands fall from his ribcage to his trousers, pulling hastily at the zipper and freeing him.

Hermione took his throbbing, pulsing length in her palm and slid it up and down, furiously. Furious because of how close she was – how bloody fucking _close_ – and because of how badly she wanted him. "Mine," she said sternly. "You are _mine_."

A his escaped his swollen lips, and Hermione let a small smile spread across her lips at how right he had been about her – about them. She ran her thumb across the tip of his cock and let the slickness of his readiness slip through her fingers. "Fucking hell," he growled, his teeth bared against her jawline, grazing it.

A low, guttural noise rumbled in the back of Draco's throat, vibrating against her collarbone as he kissed his way angrily down her neck, leaving little bites along the way. Hermione could tell he was getting close to release and wanting to return the favor he so kindly gave her, shifted her hips forward and angled the length of his cock along the slit of her cunt.

She didn't dare let him enter her yet – that would be far too merciful despite her own wants and needs – but kept up the friction so that both of them were twitching with the desire to unwind, to uncoil. To bury their demons in each other and sigh at the satisfaction it left them to bask in.

"I loathe you," Draco said, teeth gnashing against one another. He hoisted her hips up, positioning the tip of his cock against her entrance, and waited. The seconds before he slid into her were torturous and maddening; Hermione almost wept when he finally drove himself deep inside of her.

It was rough, and she gasped at the impact he made, but welcomed the next one with vigor. She herself gripped the back of his neck, digging angry crescents into his pale skin while his hands dug into her hips, creating bruises.

"Show me," Hermione choked, whispering against his lips and taking his breath in hers. Stealing it. Owning it. "Show me how much you hate me."

Draco's stormy eyes flickered across hers, momentarily shimmering silver with hesitation, but seeing the fire behind hers, he ultimately gave in and did as she asked. He showed her, and he did so just as brutally as she had hoped. Their hips collided as he buried himself in her over and over and over.

"Look at what you made me," he hissed, kissing her roughly. "I loathe you."

When they were both slick with sweat and ridden with exhaustion – when they were both _so close_ – Draco hoisted Hermione into his arms and pulled them both down the hardwood floors, lying her across the only rich carpet beside the fireplace. He held her close to him, closer, closer, _closer_.

"Fuck you," he groaned, his forehead falling against hers. "I love you. I fucking _love_ you." He thrust into her once, twice more, and she came with his name on her tongue, soaking them both in saccharine reverberations.

"You are mine, Draco Malfoy," she panted in his ear, driving her heel into his spine and wrapping her arms around him, never letting him go. He came with a disgruntled echo of his hatred and his newly proclaimed love for her, and Hermione gave him a lazy smile, letting him collapse against her.

"I love you, too," she murmured, brushing the silvery strands of his hair away from his equally silvery eyes. "I think I always have," she admitted softly, still holding him to her. Always close. Never close enough.

A smirk pulled at his lips. "Good," he said, brushing them against hers and rolling off of her to fall on his back at her side. The glow of the fire lit behind him, brought back the warm golden features, softening them enough to pull her deeper into his orbit. As if she wasn't deep enough. Hermione pondered if she would ever be.

Once their breathing finally slowed to a normal rhythm, Hermione wrapped an arm across his torso and pulled herself on top of him, propping her elbows up on his heaving chest. "Draco," she began softly. He lifted a brow; his hands settling on her hips and drawing circles over them with the rough of his fingertips.

"Yes?"

"About Theo," she said, bracing herself for his temper to return, and hurriedly getting through what she wanted to say. "What did he mean by you not being like your father?"

"Nothing," Draco snapped, then sighed. The tension in his shoulders subsided with great difficulty, and his jaw slowly unclenched as he met her curious gaze. "I'm not going to kill him, if that's what you're worried about."

"You're not?" She blinked. "And – And – Err - "

"Potter?" He guessed. Hermione nodded. "No. I won't kill him, either. I want to, believe me it would be much easier to kill him than to have to interact with him in an even slightly polite manner on Theo's behalf, but no. I won't kill him. I'm afraid, I can't."

Hermione gauged his willingness to be forthcoming with information by brushing her lips across his, in a half-kiss and tasting no lingering poison of his temper, leaned back to rest her cheek on his chest, running her hand along the scruff of his jaw.

"Why?" She asked, whispering the question into the base of his throat. "Why can't you?"

Draco sighed. "He saved my life once."

"He did?" Hermione gasped. "What? _When?_ " She racked her brain for any other allusion to such an event, but even her clever mind could not fathom one occurring. She sat up, looking to him for some clue in his expression but it seemed genuine.

"Not now, Penny," he supplied, sitting up with her and brushing back her sex-crazed curls. "That's a story for another time. Maybe." His lips quirked into a smirk then, and he stood up, pulling her up with him and brushing his knuckles against her bare abdomen. "Come on," he said. "Mother will be home soon, and I would hate to miss her lose her mind over Potter and Nott."

Hermione chuckled, slipping back into her blouse and skirt, wrangling her hair into a somewhat passable chignon that Narcissa would no-doubt ridicule excessively. "That would be a shame," she agreed, slipping her hand in his through the corridors until they came up to the main hall, where she let it fall back to her side so he could resume his cold, leadership exterior.

* * *

"Are you out of your _fucking_ mind?"

Narcissa rounded on Draco, predictably, and managed not to spill any of the dark liquid from the overflowing glass in her hand as she flung her arms out, bewildered. Hermione sank into the emerald, velvet cushions and felt immensely glad that it was Potter that was on the brunt end of Narcissa's disapproval, this time, and not her.

"He's a bloody Order member!" Her pale eyes flashed dangerously between Draco and Theo. "You must be fucking _joking_ if you think bringing him here was a wise idea."

The rogue himself cleared his throat and offered, "Ex-Order member. I quit, so to speak."

"Shut up," Theo hissed, smacking the backside of his head and tussling the wayward dark strands. "You're not helping."

"I was just trying to clear up any wrong information," Potter supplied primly and not at all genuinely. His scowl deepened as he looked up to meet Theo's icy glare. "You're the one who told me to come here," he protested.

"Bloody brilliant," Narcissa muttered into her glass, emptying it and reaching for the decanter to refill it.

"I didn't say to come _right away_ ," Theo growled defensively. "I told you to wait until I'd spoken with Draco, or you'd likely lose your head."

"Still could," Narcissa input, taking a proffered light from Blaise and sparking her cigarette. Blaise's own jaw was clenched shut, only opening to grant whiskey and smoke entrance. He, like the rest of them other than Narcissa, remained silent as Draco and Theo addressed the presence of Potter.

"Well," Potter said, ignoring Narcissa's mutterings and keeping his eyes trained on Theo's hardened expression. "You should have been clearer about what you wanted from me."

"I was fucking clear, you knave," Theo retorted, swiping a hand through his ebony hair and slicking it back with frustration. "You just weren't listening. You never bloody listen."

"Are you two quite finished?" Draco drawled, exhaling rings of smoke.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Potter remarked, not sounding even remotely apologetic. "Did you want to get back to leading your little family meeting? Well, don't let me interrupt."

"Fucking Christ," Theo groaned. "You _do_ have a death wish."

Draco's grey eyes narrowed at Potter's emerald ones. He inhaled smoke for a long minute, resting his hands casually in his pockets, then slid the cigarette to the side of his mouth with his tongue, precariously letting it dangle as he exhaled slowly.

"This isn't a family meeting," he finally replied. "By virtue of your attendance, in case you were wondering." He took the cigarette between his forefinger and thumb, angling it at Potter briskly. "Now, unless you are curious as to whether or not you would survive a night in the snake den, much less the next five minutes, without my approval, then I suggest you shut your bloody mouth and let me talk. Eh?"

Potter opened his mouth to further argue with Draco, but Theo shoved him roughly back against the velvet and perched on the arm of his chair, rolling his eyes and motioning for Draco to – please, for the love of god – continue.

"You can't be fucking serious," Narcissa snapped, catching the implication in Draco's speech. "You're letting him stay here?"

"Yes," Draco replied without missing a beat, then he held out his palm to stop her next protest so he could go on. "Let's say it's because I would prefer to keep an eye on him if Theo so wishes to put me in this impossible position. If he left the Order as he claims he did, then it would also serve to provide us with information we can use to finally be rid of them."

Narcissa's eyes were slits, "And if I didn't believe that were enough for you to grant his immunity indefinitely?"

"Believe whatever the fuck you want, Mother," Draco dabbed the last of his light into the ashtray, surveying the disapproval emanating from the other men. "He stays."

"Bloody hell," she seethed, licking the whiskey from her lips. "I'm still adjusting to the last stray you fucking let in here - "

"Thanks, Narcissa," Hermione quipped drily.

"- and now you expect me to just let you welcome another? We aren't a fucking hotel Draco!" She snapped, regarding her son vehemently. "The Death Eaters depend on you to lead them. We all do. But how can we trust that you're putting our best interests forward when you continuously pull stunts like this?"

"Don't question me, Mother." Draco cautioned. "You can trust that I am putting the Death Eaters first, and that I always will. Potter's presence here can be just as valuable as Penny's was." He paused, glancing back at her with a hint of a smirk, then added. "Well, perhaps, not _as_ valuable but he still isn't without his uses."

" _Fuck_ ," Narcissa groaned, brandishing her half-lit cigarette at Theo and Draco. "Will both of you ever stop thinking with your fucking cocks? Bloody nightmare, you both are."

"Mother," Draco warned, voice low.

"Fine!" She shouted, throwing her hands up in defeat. "Have it your way, Draco! You always bloody do, so why do I even bother? I am warning you though, that if this comes back to bite us then it will have been on orders. It will be your head, your conscience, that bears the weight of this decision, my son."

Draco pursed his lips, "Heavy is the head that wears the crown."

Vince erupted that minute in a flurry of shouts and screams, but Greg swiftly calmed him down through pouring copious amounts of burning whiskey down his throat and smacking his arms until he quieted down. Taking deep, labored breaths and shaking his demons free.

No one else in the room reacted to this outburst, they were all used to it since the two men returned, and generally looked the other way as it happened. Potter, however, furrowed his dark brows and blinked as if registering their presence in the room for the first time.

"Wait a fucking minute. Aren't you supposed to be dead?" He asked, tilting his head toward Vince and arching a brow at him quizzically. "I specifically remember that you should be dead."

"Eh," Vince shrugged, unwrapping a chocolate bar and passing a piece to Greg and Blaise. "I was living in America." He chuckled to himself. "Same fucking thing."

She scoffed into her glass, reaching for the new decanter Dobby scampered in with and taking it from his outstretched hands before he could place it on the bar cart. There was a small, trill of a voice coming from the door of the sitting room as Winky poked her head in.

"Miss Astoria is here," she announced, stepping away from the gap to let the other woman in.

"Well, it's been a long bloody day but I thought you would like to see what I brought first, Narcissa, before - " She stopped abruptly, her pale green eyes falling on Theo's first and then the brilliant emerald ones beside him. "What the fuck? Who is this?" She asked no one in particular. "Who are you?" She directed at him that time.

"I'm Harry Potter," he announced proudly, smirking at her while Theo ran a hand across his mouth, dragging it down.

"Potter?" She repeated, glancing across the room to where Narcissa stood. "As in Lily and James' son?"

"I - " He stuttered. "Yes. How did you know that?" He blinked. "Who are _you_?"

But Narcissa had glided across the room, the scent of vanilla and Chanel No. 5 wafting into Hermione's senses as the woman passed her to stand beside Astoria, effectively blocking Potter from her view.

"Astoria," she said, bringing the woman's attention back to her. "What have you brought?"

She gaped at the jewel-toned man over Narcissa's shoulder momentarily before blinking and forcing a stern expression across her face. "I found him." She declared, and Hermione noted with intrigue at the immediate rigidness that struck up Narcissa's spine. "I brought him here," Astoria stated, gesturing to Winky at the door to bring the person of interest in.

The petite staff member dragged in a sniffling, rat-like man by the ear and deposited him roughly at the women's feet, muttering, "Mistress," and "Missus," before scurrying out of the room and closing the heavy wooden door loudly behind her.

"You found him," Narcissa marveled, her rouge-tinted lips gaping at the pudgy man whimpering at her designer shoes. "Shut up," she commanded, kicking at him. He whimpered some more, but ultimately cowered quieter.

"What is this? Who is he?" Draco frowned, stepping forward to stand on one side of his mother. "What the fuck have you dragged in here?"

"Ha," Narcissa scoffed, eyes flickering behind her to where Hermione sat on one armchair beside the hearth and Potter in the other. "You're one to talk, my darling son." At his fixed expression and furrowed brows, she sighed, nudging the man at her feet again. "This is an old friend of mine. If you can call him that after what he did. Perhaps, it would be more accurate to say he was a friend of your father's."

Draco inhaled sharply.

"Who is he?"

"His name is Peter Pettigrew," she supplied, her red lips twisting into a cruel smirk. Her pale eyes once again flickered over to where Harry Potter sat, hands curled into fists, knuckles flushed white. "He is responsible for the murder of Lily and James Potter," she tilted her head. "Harry Potter's parents as it were."

Astoria's lips formed a line thin line.

From Theo, and most of the others in the room including Draco, there was a gasp, a sharp intake of breath from those who knew what the weight of Narcissa's words meant. Hermione glanced nervously around the room, unsure of what the importance of this man's presence was, and how his relation to Potter's fate brought about such collective apprehension from the group.

Potter, Hermione observed as her gaze settled on the him, was vibrating with fury next to her; visibly shaking and gritting his teeth as his emerald-toned eyes flashed with a green, blazing fire.

"How do you know?" Potter spat, eyes lifting from the trembling man on the floor to Narcissa's cool composure. "How do you know he killed them? _How_?"

"Because," she shrugged, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "I was there."

* * *

Narcissa leaned into Draco for a conspiratorial minute, then nodded and stepped forward to begin barking orders at the men. She snapped her fingers at Graham and Marcus, "Oi, you two," she said, and they stood up obediently at Draco's curt nod. "Take him out back." She paused, eying the shriveling man on the floor, sniffling and whimpering. "Take Crabbe and Goyle with you, he seems heavy. Must have put on a few stones in hiding."

"Yes, Mrs. Malfoy," Graham replied, cracking his knuckles as he gestured for Greg and Vince to lift the man and carry him out of the sitting room. "The usual?" He asked her, arching a brow as he slipped a revolver from the gun strap under his suit jacket.

"Of course," Narcissa confirmed. "Though don't dig up my roses. They're new and I don't want to risk them not taking well to the," she paused, catching Potter's narrowed gaze. "Flood of nutrients," she settled on. Graham nodded again, and slapped Marcus' back as the two of them left the room.

Wails of the rat-like man echoed through the halls.

"Wait!" Potter yelled, coming abruptly to his feet. Theo slinked a hand around his torso, yanking him forcefully against his chest and holding him there. Bracing for the fight Potter would put up to be free of his grasp. "Where are you taking him? What are you going to do to him? I want to talk to him!" He screamed, throwing his words wildly out at Narcissa and Draco.

"Harry," Theo growled in his ear, low enough that only Hermione would hear aside from Potter himself, not that he seemed to care.

"I want to talk to him! He killed my parents, he _murdered_ them, and I need to know why. I _need_ to." He struggled against Theo's iron-clad arms and shouted and shouted until his face flushed red, angry and hurt. "Let me go," he sniped, elbowing Theo in the ribs. "Let me fucking go."

"No," Theo spat, tightening his hold and sending his knee into the back of Potter's, bringing the other man to crumple against the floor. He pinned him to the floor and then looked helplessly over at Draco, his eyes narrowed. "Are you going to help or are you just going to fucking stand there?"

Blaise stood, buttoned his jacket, and tipped the remainder of his drink to the back of his throat, hissing as he set the empty crystal glass down. "I'll handle this," he sighed, patting Draco's shoulder as he strode past him to aide Theo in getting Potter's flailing, flushed body out of the room.

Once he was gone, there was silence.

The four remaining people exchanged a series of glances, and then finally Astoria cleared her throat. "Come on, Penny," she said, holding out a hand for her to take. "Let's get out of here and leave them to talk."

"No," Narcissa cut in just as Hermione looped her arm in Astoria's. "Miss Clearwater can stay here. I need to speak with her." Her eyes glinted with mischief, and Draco's shoulders tensed along with Astoria's and they both regarded Narcissa warily.

"I'm not going to harm her," she spat defensively, rolling her eyes. "Go." Narcissa flicked her wrist at her son and her prodigy, then sidled up next to Hermione herself. Her eyes cut back to the other two who wavered by the door, hesitant to leave. "I said go. We're only going to talk. Will you bloody relax?"

"It's fine," Hermione croaked out, giving them both a curt nod. "Go."

The moment the door closed behind them and the silence returned, Narcissa filled two glasses and handed one to Hermione, then collapsed in the chair next to her, toying with the lush velvet as she stared. Her pale eyes bore into Hermione and it took every ounce of strength in her to stare back, unblinking, because she knew deep down this was no simple talk.

There was a reason she had asked to speak with her privately; something she had never done before.

"Draco told me what happened earlier, you know," she supplied, tipping the edge of the crystal to her lips, then pausing and setting it back down in her lap. "All a mother wants is the best for her child, and for him not to inherit the terrible traits of his parents which I suppose I have you to thank for that."

Hermione frowned, tapping her nails against the glass, "What do you mean? What could I possibly have to do with Draco's genetical inheritance?"

"Oh, it's not a matter of genetics," Narcissa mused. "At least, I don't think so. You've proven as much, and more."

She shook her head, analyzing the sharp angles of the woman's cheekbones. "I still don't understand."

"No," Narcissa lamented. "You wouldn't, would you? Though, that's why I'm here. I would like to inform you," she stated plainly. "I owe you that much. An explanation." Hermione wanted to question her further but bit back a response, and Narcissa's eyes gleamed. "Clever," she said approvingly.

"My son could have killed Theo. He would have had every right to do so for what he did, but he didn't. He knew it was his obligation, and though he hesitated, I'm sure that he would have gone through with it in the end. Then, he would have his best friend's death on his conscience." Narcissa sighed. "I'm thrilled that is not the case. All due to you, Penny."

Hermione swallowed, nodding her appreciation in silence and daring to take a long gulp of the searing, spiced liquor.

"He is not like his father, and I thank the sun and the stars every day for that. He is not like his father, and so he would not have been able to carry the burden of killing his best friend. Lucius was different," Narcissa informed her between sips. "He was cold and calculating, the same as Draco and me, sure, but he was also cruel. Unusually cruel. He could pull the trigger – and he _would've_ – without blinking."

There was a break, several beats of silence before Hermione cleared her throat, aiming for nonchalance.

"I still don't understand why this has to do with me." She said. "He didn't really want to hurt Theo. All I did was lower the gun. It's hardly of significance."

"No, but that's just it. It is _entirely_ significant. You have made my son a better man, a kinder man, than his father ever was and for that – no matter how much I wish to – I cannot hate you. I cannot do anything other than thank you." Narcissa shook her head, tipping the glass back and taking a large gulp. "Lucius was never thoughtful, never kind, and he never _once_ thought about how his decisions would affect others. Especially me."

Hermione chewed the inside of her cheek.

She tried to imagine what horrors Narcissa had to endure if she painted Draco as the angel the papers made him out to be even knowing what evils he's responsible for outside of the one he narrowly avoided that morning.

"Pettigrew," she said, glancing askance at Hermione. "I've been looking for him for years, and now I can finally rest knowing that fucking piece of shit no longer scurries around the city. Hiding in sewers and avoiding my wrath like the bloody rat he is." She scoffed. "He's the reason the fucking Order formed in the first fucking place."

"He is?" Hermione asked, letting the words slip between her whiskey-soaked lips before she could help it.

Narcissa nodded, smirking conspiratorially.

"Lily Potter – Lily Evans back then – was an honorary member of the Death Eaters once upon a time," she told Hermione, chuckling as she tipped her glass toward her. "A bit like yourself, actually. She was close with Severus," – "Severus?" – "Another member. No longer around," Narcissa supplied, waving her hand. "She was close with him and though he was irreparably and hopelessly in love with her, she did not return the sentiment."

Hermione frowned.

"Anyway," Narcissa went on, refilling both of their glasses with bronze liquid. "Lily, of course, went and got herself hitched to James Potter, the scoundrel he was, and the two of them began plotting against the Death Eaters, claiming us to be an unspeakable evil to society." She sighed. "Lily tried to recruit Sev to join Potter and his Marauder gang, but he wouldn't go. He was too loyal to Lucius by then, and too scared to betray him."

She listened closely, enraptured by every word rolling off Narcissa's tongue.

"On the other hand, Pettigrew, originally a Marauder, figured himself on the losing team and was all too willing to sell himself to Lucius and the Death Eaters. He traded in information of the whereabouts of Lily and James Potter." She said, her eyes glazed over.

Narcissa paused, sipping idly at her drink, then went on. "One night, on Hallows Eve, Lucius dragged me to the house Pettigrew claimed to be their residence, and he killed them. James first, with half a round buried in his chest, and then Lily next. She was clutching her son, and when she fell, I took him from her dead grasp to cradle him."

Hermione's frown deepened, and she quickly finished the burning liquid in her glass.

Narcissa closed her eyes for a moment. They fluttered open, her lashes sitting heavily against her cheek. "Lucius didn't falter. Didn't blink. He just shot her. In the head because the baby, _the fucking baby_ , she held was in the way of her heart. I took the baby, Harry, and cradled him. He was upset, and he wouldn't stop screaming so I tried to settle him. To soothe him."

"Lucius and Pettigrew looked at me like I was crazy. As if I was the one who committed a terribly immoral crime by trying to soothe the child who was no older than Draco at the time. He was just a baby." She closed her eyes again, and this time when they opened, Hermione could see the ice flashing behind them. "Pettigrew prompted Lucius to question my loyalty."

Her knuckles flushed white against the empty glass.

"He suggested that because Sirius was my cousin, and a Marauder, that I was sympathetic to their cause. That I was somehow plotting with them to bring down my husband and the Death Eaters." Narcissa hissed. "I told them that I wasn't close with Sirius or Regulus but that wasn't enough for them. Pettigrew instilled the fear in Lucius that my betrayal of him was eminent if I wasn't willing to prove myself. So, I did."

She slid her gaze over to Hermione, fixing her cold stare on her. "I called Sirius and Regulus to the crime scene the same time I called the police, and just as they all showed up, I did what had to be done. To protect myself, and my son, from my husband and his temper. I framed them and left the child with them. There wasn't much of an investigation since by then Lucius and Pettigrew had hidden in the shadows, and the police were not wont to believe a _woman_ capable of murder."

"That's why you are protective over him," Hermione realized, searching Narcissa's face for validation. "You feel guilty for his circumstance, and you don't want his blood on Draco's hands either for the same reason."

"I understand your experience with my cousin has been different," she admitted, disregarding Hermione's hidden question, though that alone was confirmation enough. "I don't expect you to share my defense of his life, nor do I expect you to abide by it. Do what you must."

Hermione regarded her suspiciously, then nodded.

Narcissa suddenly rose to her feet and crossed her arms over her chest, glaring down at Hermione. "I'm not going to pretend like I suddenly care about you, now, and I don't expect you to return the sentiment. Though, I do owe you, Penny because you have shown me that my son, despite all of what he does for the Death Eaters, is _nothing_ like his father."

"I - "

"Don't say anything," Narcissa snapped.

Hermione nodded, then stood up and dusted her skirt off. She held out a hand and arched a dark brow at Draco's mother. "Not friends," she assured the other woman. "But allies?"

Narcissa eyed the small palm facing her and shook it. "Fine," she sniffed.

* * *

 **A/N -** This chapter title comes from BlocBoy JB feat. Drake's song _Look Alive_ from the lines _pushed me to the edge, so it really ain't my motherfuckin' fault, man / I'm not to blame, man / this fucking industry is cutthroat, I'm not the same man_ xx


	8. Playing Tetris

**Chapter 8: Playing Tetris**

* * *

_24 December 1924_

_BELOVED BACHELOR MISSING: A REFLECTION OF HIS LIFE AND LEGACY_

_By Rita Skeeter_

_While the rest of us wait patiently for news on Mr. Draco Malfoy's whereabouts and wellbeing, we cannot help but theorize what may have happened to the young, successful, and cherished man of our society. The shock of Mr. Malfoy's failure to show at the Christmas Charity Gala, specifically to claim his Man of the Year award and grant those in attendance the pleasure of listening to one of his expertly written and dictated speeches, reverberated among all of Great Britain ominously._

_Several eyewitnesses – guests of the Gala – assert that Miss Pansy Parkinson and Miss Daphne Greengrass were both seen fleeing the palace under Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy's arms. "They were clearly very distraught," says Miss Fleur Delacour. "I do hope that the two of them work it out and feel better soon." By that, we can only presume that Fleur – who attended at the bequest of Mr. Hartnell and Mr. Malfoy himself – means that she hopes that the two women work out a row that may have occurred between Mr. Malfoy and either of themselves._

_Miss Delacour elaborated that she was pleased to see "the little brunette" on Mr. Malfoy's arm at another, private event which, although upsetting many fans of her pairing with Mr. Malfoy herself, leads us to believe that it is in fact Miss Parkinson that holds Mr. Draco Malfoy's favor and heart._

_Either way, we do agree with the beautiful French woman in that the wellbeing of both women – no matter who is the intended wife-to-be! – along with Mr. Draco Malfoy is of the utmost importance._

This part is actually a bit painful to read.

It's hard to go back and think about that gala without panicking, and right now I need to keep a level head. As best as I can with the circumstances, I suppose. Which, predictably, include me facing my own death (among many other fun things) which was a making of my own doing.

I set the bed and now I must lie in it.

As for Pansy holding Draco's favor and heart, that was quite comedic genius and did make me feel better for a second. I mean, seriously? I know for a _fact_ that Pansy and Daphne were not crying over Draco because I don't even think they knew he was missing when Narcissa ushered them out of the palace and back to the Manor. They were too absorbed in their own problems to notice anyone else's that day.

Then again, I'm shouldn't be one to talk.

Perhaps, if I had been paying even an ounce more attention to anyone other than myself in the past twenty-four hours, then I would have noticed how absurd and unusual Draco's absence was, and I wouldn't be scrambling, willing to die if necessary, to save him.

At least, on the bright side, Fleur didn't name me to that Rita woman. Dodged _that_ bullet.

Would it be wishful thinking to presume that would be a good sign that I would dodge this bullet staring at me, too?

* * *

_29 August 1923_

Hermione stepped out of the second car with Theo and Harry, watching as Draco mesmerized the few reporters that had been tipped off about the event that they were all attending. Originally, only Draco and Theo had been granted invitations – and Hermione presumed it would be Pansy and Daphne that accompanied them, naturally – but as it turns out it was her and the other newbie in the Manor.

She laughed as Theo pushed Harry forcefully through the glass doors and into the small cocktail room, evading the guards' inspection with a simple nod. This was his event, after all, and who were they to deny him a free pass.

Their hands were thankfully not as intrusive as they could have been as they searched her for any weapons. Hermione was briefly astonished that they had even thought to search her considering her status as a member of the fairer sex. They were, supposedly, known not to be capable of violent behavior.

The initial shock of them asking her to stand aside as they searched her quickly wore off as Hermione registered that she was, in fact, currently holding at least two detectable weapons. The third was less obvious so, she was less concerned about the brute of a man patting her down discovering it.

First, the gruff man asked to see her purse. She gave it willingly. Hermione had learned not to conceal anything noteworthy in it; it was the first place someone would suspect anything to be so, she kept simple, feminine products such as lipstick and mirrors in there and nothing more. The man handed it back to her with a curt nod.

Then, he arched a brow as he let his massive, hairy hands hover over her arms. Hermione slid the chain strap over her shoulder and nodded her assent to him, grateful that he had thought to hesitate and silently ask permission. As his hands slid over the base of her neck, and the neckline of her dress, as he moved from one extended arm to another, Hermione held her breath. She felt the cool, edged silver fall between her bralette and exhaled at the precise moment it nicked her stomach. The tip of the blade caught in her under-shift and she thanked god that the man didn't notice it poking out.

Finally, his hands slid down her legs and Hermione timed her theatrical reaction for the opportune moment. When his hands skirted the strap around her ankles and slid up her bare legs, angling toward the slit in her dress, she promptly leapt back and let out a loud shriek.

"How _dare_ you?" She yelped. Hermione painted an aristocratic-level face of pained pride over her facial expression and aimed her purse accusingly at him. "Have you no respect for women? You think because you wear a fancy little suit and shaded lenses that you can simply grope women as you please because you are _immune_?"

Hermione smirked inwardly at the heads turning to witness the scene.

"I want to speak to your superiors," she demanded, stomping further past him and his coworker. "Where are they? What's your name, Sir? I will be speaking to them at my earliest convenience about the _assault_ I narrowly avoided."

"No, ma'am, please," the man said, shuffling uneasily as more heads turned to stare at the two of them and give him dirty looks. "I was only doing my job – I didn't mean to – Please, I have daughters, I would never!"

"Hm," Hermione huffed, turning on her heel and disappearing into the cocktail room without another word.

Theo and Harry stood at one of the miniature tables with two drinks already in each of their hands. Harry held one of his out to Hermione and she took it with a solemn nod, then looked Theo up and down and sighed at his bemused expression.

"What?" She snapped.

"Nothing," he chuckled under his breath. "I just enjoy you putting the patriarchy in their place."

Hermione arched a dark eyebrow, sipping at the fruity gin. "You realize, Nott, that you are a member of the patriarchy, yes? Just because you are sleeping with another member of the party does not mean your inclusion is moot."

"As I said," he shrugged. "I enjoy you putting us in our place."

She let out an exasperated laugh and let it dissolve into her next sip.

"What I want to know," Harry said, pursing his lips. "Is why that was even necessary in the first place."

"My god man," Theo groaned, shaking his head and tussling the other man's already messy hair. "You really have a lot to learn about us, don't you?"

"As if any of you would ever be forthcoming with me," he remarked drily.

Hermione took pity on the newcomer. She remembered being in his place once – and being constantly taken around with Draco and Theo so that they could keep a careful eye on her while also not explaining a single thing she witnessed – and did not miss it.

"That," she began, gesturing lazily over her shoulder to the guards. "Was because I don't want him to discover my highly illegal possession of weaponry." She paused, handing her glass back to Harry for him to hold. "Which reminds me, I have to adjust one of them before I rupture my own spleen."

"What?" Harry asked, eyes widening in horror. Theo merely chuckled and leaned casually against the table.

"This should be good," he muttered.

Hermione glanced around to make sure no one was looking at her and positioned herself between the two men so that no passerby of the party would see what she was about to do. Her hand slid aside the slit of her gown to reveal a revolver strapped around her thigh – "Bloody hell," Harry remarked – and she reached her white-gloved hand up to her abdomen where she pulled out a large, daggered knife.

"Alright," Harry gasped. "What the fuck?"

She repositioned the knife carefully against her breastbone and then took her glass from him with a dimpled smile. Her third weapon, which she chose not to reveal to either man, was a making of her and Astoria's creation. It was a bejeweled pin holding back her curls that when freed would be sharp enough to slit one's throat.

Should she want to do such a thing.

"Fuck," she hissed low enough for only the two men next to her to hear. Narcissa had reminded her, as she usually did before Hermione stepped out into society, that foul language was especially unladylike and frowned upon in higher society. The gin rested on her tongue for a moment before she sent it down her throat. "This is good,"

"I know," Theo chuckled, "It's almost as if Malfoy knows what the bloody hell he's doing."

"Yes, well," she replied. "I don't know why he didn't think to distribute his product among your pubs the minute he called Vince and Greg back."

"I still can't believe that fucker is alive," Harry muttered.

At the same time, Theo gave her a knowing look and waved over his head as he caught sight of the smug blond himself. "Penny," Theo said, letting his pale blue eyes fall back on her. "We both know why he didn't do anything with his distillery right after. It took – What? – _months_ for you to convince him that Longbottom was no longer a threat and that there was no point passing up the opportunity to make more money."

Hermione merely shrugged.

"Pen," Draco breathed as he came up to their small group. His silvery eyes gleamed promisingly, sending her stomach lurching. "Will you do me the honor of sharing my first dance with me?"

"Wait, really?" She blinked. "But what about all of these people watching you? Aren't you afraid that they'll say something?"

"Sure," he lifted his shoulders disinterestedly. "They could. It would only be hearsay, after all, and seeing as none of them know you as more than my humble, little assistant I highly doubt they will find the dance worth remarking to the reporters outside." He paused, sharing a knowing glance with Theo. "Actually, I'm quite certain none of them even know your name."

Hermione tipped the remainder of the strawberry-flavored gin to the back of her throat, relishing in the burn of it. "Then, sure," she said, letting a small smile creep up over her pink lips. "I would love that."

"Watch out for the dagger," Harry commented as she put her hand in Draco's and let him lead them onto the intimate dance floor.

Draco placed his hand on the small of her back, pulling her close to him. At first, as the soft jazz echoed through the room and the began to turn to the rhythm, several heads caught on the sight of them. Hermione had expected their eyes to linger, their stares to trail down her body and criticize her, but that is not at all what happened. As Draco had predicted, none of them kept their attention on the two of them dancing for longer than half a breath.

It bewildered her, that to them she was nothing even when she was encompassed by Draco's arms – the man they talk about so wildly and itch to gain favor of. Because she wasn't someone of noteworthy status, or of noteworthy blood like Pansy and Daphne, they didn't bother wasting their time even looking at her.

Hermione was delighted to discover that it didn't bother her.

If anything, it helped her understand Astoria much better. She had once questioned the woman as to why she had never heard of her before now. Surely, as Draco's ex, she would have been subject to being dragged through the mud along with any other woman who so much as shared a dance with Draco in comp.

"It's simple," Astoria had told her, smirking a little triumphantly. "I made myself invisible. I may be a Greengrass, but I used my elder sister's popularity as a shield when we were younger and so by the time, I became of age to do anything noteworthy, the press had already lost interest in me."

Hermione, unfortunately, had not been able to get any more out of her about her time dating Draco – and he wasn't forthcoming _at all_ regarding her, either – and at the time she hadn't understood why Astoria had seemed so pleased with herself when admitting that.

Pansy and Daphne, as much as they weren't involved with Draco, still adored being in the spotlight.

She couldn't fault them for being so comfortable in front of reporters since most of their efforts following graduation have been to further what are known as passion projects in high society. Meaning, mostly, that they gave attention and loads of money to areas that would otherwise struggle without their help. For the most part, these were neutral humanities projects like Draco's Children in Need charity, but Hermione was ecstatic to see both women choose projects that were also feministic.

In this day and age, she knew how vital it was for women to stick together and raise each other up.

Silently, Hermione pondered if Astoria or Narcissa somehow had an influence in their projects. Pansy had started a charity called Girls on the Run which promotes empowerment and life-skills in the young girls, while Daphne allied with a Kiwi aristocrat by the name of Hannah Abbott to start Girls not Brides, meant to end child marriages.

Rita would never cover them, of course, but it was still comforting to see the projects blooming.

Hermione was so caught up in her reverie that she barely noticed one set of eyes following her every movement as she twirled around in Draco's arms. He caught the sudden stiffness of her back and cocked an eyebrow at her quizzically, scanning the room himself for any potential threat.

This, however, was less of an actual threat to Hermione and more of a nuisance.

"What is it?" He finally asked, leaning in to whisper in her ear.

Hermione frowned, pulling out of his embrace the minute the song came to an end and angling him away from the dance floor. "Miss Delacour is here," she remarked drily. If she was quick enough, then she could get her and Draco out of the woman's eyesight and could hopefully avoid another strange lecture.

"Oh?" Draco gasped, not sounding at all surprised.

She spun on her heel, rounding on him with her eyes narrowed. "You don't sound to shocked to learn that the French fairy princess is here." Hermione didn't resist letting her distaste show, which ended up backfiring as Draco's amused grin only grew.

"You aren't jealous of her, are you?"

"What?" She spewed. "No. What is there to be jealous of? Her flawless skin, perhaps? Or her charming personality? Oh, and definitely not the fact that her beautiful naked body was pressed up against yours and _still_ displayed around the city every holiday season, right?" Hermione scoffed, spinning around and aiming herself for the powder room.

Draco chuckled, following her.

"Hey!" She protested as he stormed into the petite room after her. "You can't be here! Women only!"

"Oh, my apologies," he drawled, once again sound not even remotely sincere with his emotions. "Should I see if Miss Delacour is perhaps available? Would you prefer her company?"

"Shut up," Hermione snapped. "That's not fair. It's not like I've given you anyone to be - " She bit her tongue on the word jealous, and watched as a fire danced behind the smoky grey of Draco's eyes. "Never mind. Just – Shut up," she settled on lamely.

Draco grinned.

He flicked the lock on the door and backed her up against the vanity table, letting his hands fall to the curve of her hips. "My, my," he tutted, his lips brushing against her jaw. "So feisty, today, aren't we, Pen?"

Hermione shuddered.

"Careful, Draco," she warned coquettishly, "You wouldn't want to see how feisty I am with a weapon aimed at you, now would you?" He chest vibrated against hers, and she held her breath as his hands skirted the edge of her dress.

"Oh, I know _precisely_ where your weapon is, Penny, and it is always aimed at me." His fingertips slid over the back of her neck, undoing the single pearl button and letting the top of her gown drape over her torso, exposing her lacy bralette and the hilt of the dagger against her breastbone. "Ah, there's another one. This one, however, I fear much less,"

To prove his point, Draco removed the serrated knife from its precarious position and slid the smooth side of it along Hermione's jawline, then deposited it on the vanity table behind her. Hermione gasped as the cool metal left her skin dimpled and met his icy stare. "I didn't know you feared anything," she mused quietly.

"Hm," he non-answered.

She choked on another gasp as his hands slid down her waist, tapping against her ribs as the pressed against her skin; her lungs filling with air and burning, preparing to burst and wither. "That isn't my only - "

"Weapon?" He finished, arching a silver brow knowingly. She swallowed her answer, biting down on her lip to stop a more embarrassing sound from escaping as his clever, skillful hands shifted to part the slit of her dress even more. "You think I didn't notice you favoring this leg?" Draco asked, skimming the leather strap around her thigh. "Penny, you're going to have to be a bit brighter than that," he smirked.

Draco unbuckled the strap and slung it onto the vanity table, then roughly spun her around and pulled her hips back to meet his. Hermione could feel his arousal pressing into her bum. She braced herself on the vanity table and stared at the reflection, astonished to see the dark glint of desire evident in both of their eyes.

Hermione watched as the reflection of his palm skated over her stomach to cup her breast, toying with the bead of her nipple and rolling it expertly between his thumb and his forefinger. She, completely entranced like the trapped planet she was, could not tear her gaze away. The heat of his touch burned, as hot and searing and detrimental as it usually was, but now it felt like the fire was only just beginning; it would only get hotter and burn brighter and she yearned for it. She wanted to burn with him, her sun.

His foot kicked out her legs, spreading them and his knee tucked behind hers, lifting it and almost nearly throwing her off balance as she shifted to lean on her other foot. Draco, though, wrapped his other arm around her torso to steady her at the same time, making sure that she would never fall. Hermione imagined if it were up to him that particular sentiment would always be true, but the unkind words of Black played ruefully at the forefront of her mind.

_The higher you climb, the farther you fall –_

_And you_ will _fall._

But she shoved the piercing words out of her brain as Draco's fingers slid between the lips of her cunt. This time, Hermione did not bite back a moan, letting it roll off her tongue along with the shallow gasp of his name. Her eyes fell, in the mirror, to the sight of his palm rubbing against her clit, bringing her to a new elation. Coiling and coiling and _coiling_.

Hermione gasped and panted, feeling the release building and churning, ready to burst with one more flick of his fingers and –

She came. Hard. Her slick euphoria dripped down her inner thighs, coating her skin as well as his hand in her sweet release. Draco let her ride it out for another moment, let her catch her breath, and then he pulled her up, close to him. Always close. His lips brushed the nape of her neck, leaving kisses and grazes of teeth as he filled her.

It was impossible to look away.

Much as she wanted to close her eyes and lean her head back against his shoulder, to wrap her arms around his neck and bury her fingers in the fine, golden strands of his hair, she could not bring herself to do it. She could not bring herself to look away. He felt so good. He always felt so _fucking good_. Admittedly, on other occasions, they would both drop their gaze to watch as he thrust into her, slowly filling her with his throbbing, pulsing length.

This time was no different, except for some reason it entirely was; watching him fill her through a speckled reflective surface sparked a flame, a natural high, in the depths of her brain.

* * *

Three months later, the four of them stepped once again into a building. However, this time, it was not nearly as grandeur as the last nor even remotely for a celebratory reason. Hermione eyed the beams over their heads skeptically, sure that one would collapse any minute and strike them. Her gaze met Theo's as she lowered it and they shared a conspiratorial glance before he strode forward and yanked Potter's arm back.

"Hey," he said, eyes narrowed. "You aren't suicidal enough to lead us into a trap, are you?"

"No," Potter retorted, green eyes blazing. "I told you, this is just a meeting."

"Yes," another, new male voice said. "As Harry has so kindly phrased it, this is simply a meeting between two warring gangs for the purposes of hopefully establishing a peace treaty of some sort."

"A treaty?" Theo repeated, bristling.

Hermione saw the tall, lanky man step forward from the shadows and was unsurprised to see Lupin was the one who had been talking. She was, conversely, surprised not to see a particular greasy, ebony-haired relative of Draco's at his side. Something dark stirring inside the pit of her stomach was disappointed.

"A treaty, yes." Lupin verified with a nod. A tall, pink-haired woman stepped up in Black's usual place at his side and his lips twitched upwards as she crossed her arms over her chest. Hermione instantly knew that she would prove to be a weak link of his for later uses should they be necessary. "I am not so disillusioned," Lupin went on calmly. "To think that our people are capable of any more than that. Certainly, we will never be able to get along – only to coexist peacefully."

"Peacefully," Draco murmured, his eyes glinting coldly at the pair before him. "You must learn to be a better liar than that, Lupin, if you plan on deceiving me one day."

"I'm not sure what you mean," he replied.

"Yeah," Harry inputted gruffly, earning an elbow to the ribs from Theo. "What the hell are you talking about, Malfoy?" He spat, glaring at Draco. Hermione wondered how that dastardly man had managed to live so long and not get himself killed for his smart mouth; she made a mental note to ask Theo later if that was why he always sneered _Chosen One_ at Potter.

"Are you going to pretend like you didn't see that lory outside, Potter?" Draco countered. He shook his head, tsk-ing at the jewel-eyed man. Then, at Theo. "You sure it's him you want to give your affections to, Nott?"

"Shut up," Harry grumbled, though Hermione caught a tinge of hurt flash behind his emerald eyes as they flickered to Theo, who refused to look at him in the span of that particular second.

"Lory?" Hermione muttered, glancing around at the street outside of the abandoned building through the dirty, newspaper-covered windows and not seeing anything remarkable. "What about it?"

"It's hiding the rest of the Order members." He replied simply, loud enough for everyone in the empty room to hear as his voice echoed off the rotting wood. "Isn't that right, Lupin?"

The older man's lips pulled into a taunting grin. "Oh, Malfoy, don't pretend like you aren't doing precisely the same thing as I am. I know your little Death Eaters are hidden behind these very walls as we speak. Should we invite everyone out to play, hm?"

Hermione stiffened at the implication and though she tried to hide it, Lupin's dark eyes had already caught onto the guilty motion and she swallowed a lump in the back of her throat.

"Just as I suspected," Lupin muttered under his breath, and the woman beside him chuckled, her lips twisting into a mean grin. One that sent chills up Hermione's already erect, anxious spine. Her eyes flickered unhelpfully to Harry's and searched his face – much like Theo was also doing, she suspected – for a sign of betrayal. Signs of a set-up.

Draco, meanwhile, managed to keep a level head and his slate grey, calculating gaze trained on his true opponents. "Yes," he finally said, lifting his chin proudly. "Let's invite our brethren in, shall we? Why should we be allowed to have all of the fun, eh?"

"Exactly what I was thinking, Malfoy." The other man agreed.

With a flick of his wrist, a hoard of men climbed out of the back of truck with a burlap covering over the back of it, and Hermione watched in horror as the other side easily outnumbered hers, once again. Every man that filed into the room had been present at the bar brawl years ago, and other than the woman standing intimately close to Lupin, Hermione was the only other woman.

The Weasley's, the youngest son in particular that Hermione had stabbed once upon a time, glared vehemently at Potter and she recalled that he had left the Order in seemingly rushed, bad terms. He had mentioned that he knew something about them, discovered something that he felt worth leaving, and she presumed that from the violent stares between Potter and Weasley that the latter of the two had not been equally informed in whatever it was that the former found out.

The hatred, the _betrayal_ , was unmistakable.

Then again, it could have had everything to do with Theo's finger looped around Potter's trouser belt loop, securing him to his side.

"Now that we're all here," Lupin said, smiling vacantly around the crowded space. "Shall we get started on negotiations?"

"Negotiations," Draco repeated, casually resting his hands in his pockets. "That's an interesting way to put it."

Lupin's smile faltered briefly, revealing the hidden animosity he truly felt toward Draco, and Hermione grimaced, inching closer to his side and letting her fingers curl around her signature blade – the one Draco had gifted her – hidden in the sleeve of her blazer.

"Listen," he stated, placating a false amicability across his slender features, "We both know there has been an influx of IRA in the streets over the past few weeks, and we both know what they're here for."

Ah, yes, Hermione recalled. That would be the SMLE guns and fifteen-thousand rounds of ammunition the Royal Small Arms Factory seemingly misplaced. How careless of them.

Lupin's dark brown eyes settled accusingly on Draco with an air of calculated indifference which Hermione didn't believe in the slightest to be genuine. "We can at least, I believe, agree that the artillery cannot fall into the hands of the IRA. We all just survived one war and I don't plan on starting another one anytime soon."

Draco's stoic expression didn't falter.

"You think I have the guns?" He speculated aloud.

Hermione fought every fiber in her nervous system from reacting this time, knowing that the pink-haired woman's dark eyes were trained on her. Theo, predictably, also did not react; though, that was less impressive considering his upbringing and the fact that it was his pub that hoarded the stolen weaponry.

"I didn't say that," replied Lupin diplomatically.

"No," Draco corrected, "but you implied it, and I don't care for the insinuation." He lowered his newsboy cap so that the silver glinted in a stray beam of light and went on, "I am wealthy enough to afford guns and bullets without having to steal them from the RSAF." He paused, letting his gaze slid across to the red-haired men gathered to one side of the room. "That seems like something your people would be more inclined to do, doesn't it?"

The youngest Weasley muttered, "Death Eater scum," under his breath which earned him a slap to the back of his head from the one-eyed man called Moody.

Lupin ignored this.

"So," he drawled. "You believe that I have the guns, then?"

Draco scoffed, his lips twitching into a mean, little grin. "No. I know you don't have them, because if you did, then none of my properties, nor Nott's, would likely currently be operational, much less standing in one piece." He lit a cigarette and took a long drag. "Which leads me to wonder _why_ you want to draft some form of peace treaty among us if there is nothing either of us will gain from it?"

Hermione blinked. He had an excellent point (presuming, of course, one looked at it from Lupin's perspective and believed Draco to not be in possession of the stolen weaponry).

Lupin shrugged, "Call it a precautionary alliance."

To that, Draco nodded. He exhaled a ring of smoke and smirked, "Better the devil you know than the devil you don't, eh?"

Hermione stifled a laugh.

The proverb Draco quoted was, ironically, of Irish origin. Though, knowing his level of intelligence and cunning, he probably knew that and said it on purpose. She wondered if Lupin understood the comedy of the phrase.

"So," the other man said, lifting his chin toward Draco. "Do we have an understanding?"

"Aye," Draco replied. "We have an understanding."

As the Order members began to exit the room, Hermione caught the youngest Weasley try to grab Potter by the arm, but the other boy – noticeably healthier after months spent in the Manor – pulled away and held Theo back defiantly. "Later Ron, just trust me,"

Hermione narrowed her eyes at the exchange and felt the warmth of Draco's presence beside her. "I don't trust them," he told her simply, low enough for only her to hear. "Especially Potter," he added, nodding to him walking away with Theo, trailed by a sulky Marcus – who was most likely disappointed that there hadn't been a chance to throw a fist – "Keep an eye on him for me, Penny."

"Consider it done," she responded without a breath of hesitation.

As it was, she had been planning on doing just that regardless of Draco's instruction.

* * *

The bleak winter bled into spring in the blink of an eye and the only real change that occurred was the color or presence (or lack thereof) of the leaves outside. Hermione had not been able to get close with Harry per se, and get him to open up with her, but she was at least able to observe him or interact with him almost daily because she and he spent most of their time sharing Theo's company.

The fire crackled in the hearth, spreading its warmth throughout the quaint reading room overlooking the front lawns of the Manor. The chill of the early spring was biting, threatening her toes with frostbite even with the copious amounts of coal burning in the furnace across the room. She pulled a wool throw over her lap and surveyed the chess board before her.

Hermione contemplated her next move, then decided to dangle a bishop in front of Potter's pawns, knowing that he would take it.

One could learn a lot about a person from the way they played a game of chess. If they were cautious and took their time making several small moves, then they were generally afraid of risk and were unlikely to gamble in their life as well. If they took bold moves but took their time doing so – like herself and Draco – then they were likely using smoke and mirrors to shield their true motivations. If they were bold but jumped to make the first maneuver that came to mind, no matter how detrimental such a move might be several steps later, then they were generally headstrong and idiotically brave.

Harry Potter fell into the last category.

He, as Hermione had suspected that he would, captured her bishop and freed the path for her, in exactly three moves, to take his king in a checkmate. The taste of victory was sweet on her tongue, but she refrained from letting it disrupt her poker face and, conversely, let a small frown turn her mouth downwards.

A small smirk spread across Potter's face and Hermione tried to feel sorry for him as he eyed her queen, also carefully placed two moves from his seizure as a way to distract him. Baiting him with captures of her larger players by his smaller ones was his signature vice, and she sat back silently smug at having discovered his thought process.

"Penny," Astoria chimed, entering the room just as Hermione tipped Potter's king with a smirk, reveling in the flash behind his emerald eyes. "Would you join me for a walk around the gardens? I hear Narcissa planted some new primroses,"

Narcissa's roses had not fared well against the gardenias (they are apparently very competitive) and so, she had opted to plant primroses for their symbolism and compatibility to her beloved gardenia bushes.

Hermione knew they were beginning to bloom in the early spring; however, she also knew that Astoria had never once displayed any interest in Narcissa's garden, nor was she a fan of walking in the cold evenings, either.

She stood and smiled at the woman regardless trusting that, like when they first got to know each other, there was an underlying purpose to this walk. "Of course," she replied, bidding goodbye and good game to Potter as she left him, Theo and Blaise to have the room to themselves.

They put on coats and scarves, then slipped past the men guarding the door to wander through the gardens. As they stepped down the stone steps to the first lower level of the terraced garden, Hermione cleared her throat, "So," she began, eying the vacant look on the other woman. "Where have you been today, on another errand for Narcissa?"

"Penny," Astoria reprimanded. "You know even I wanted to that I couldn't tell you if I was."

"Right," she remarked drily, letting her fingers traipse the cold petals of the flowers.

"Don't do that." Astoria criticized, her pale green eyes gleaming against her pale skin and dark, brunette hair left in loose waves cascading over her shoulders. "Don't do that. Don't pity yourself for not being included." Her face softened minutely. "Personally, I don't think she includes you because she feels guilty. Responsible, even. Definitely apprehensive."

"What?" Hermione sputtered. "That makes no sense."

"It does," she insisted, her eyes narrowing at something in the distance as she analyzed the proposal. "Her errands are dangerous, well everything the Death Eaters do is dangerous, but this is different. I almost always go in alone and without backup. After all, none of you ever know what I'm doing much less where I go so, how could any of you possibly help me if I got in trouble?" She paused. "Narcissa knows Draco would burn the city to the ground if anything happened to you." A sigh followed by a sidelong glance. "I think she feels guilty for what happened to you… with Black."

Hermione shifted uncomfortably, halting their winding path through the newly planted primroses.

"She gave you permission to take his fate into your own hands, didn't she?" Astoria pressed.

"Yes," she admitted, breathless. "She – Wait – Did she give you permission as well?"

Astoria slipped a loose wave behind her ear, the pale emerald stone imitating the color of her irises sparkled in the moonlight, and Hermione frowned, catching the infinitesimal clench in Astoria's jaw. "No," she finally stated, meeting Hermione's gaze with a narrowed one of her own. "She didn't. Why would she?"

"Why would - " Hermione repeated, astounded. She blinked. "What do you _mean_ why would she? Because of what he did to you, Astoria!"

She gritted her teeth. "I told you, Penny, no one knows about that." At Hermione's subsequent gaping mouth, she added, "No, not even Narcissa knows."

"But," Hermione sputtered. "Why? Why not?" When Astoria said nothing, continuing their path through the dimly lit garden, Hermione rushed forward and took a hold of her small wrist. "That's not healthy, Astoria! You need to talk to someone about that."

"I'm talking to you, aren't I?" She countered, pouting.

"That doesn't count. You aren't _saying_ anything!" Hermione protested, flailing her free hand around wildly.

"Penny, will you desist with your abhorrent emotions?" She grimaced, her nose scrunching in distaste. "They are irritating and not at all necessary in the slightest." She pulled her arm free from Hermione's grasp and tightened the strap of her coat, knotting it swiftly.

" _Not necessary?_ " Hermione shrieked. "How can you say that - "

"Listen," Astoria cut in sharply, jewel-toned eyes blazing. "I don't _want_ to talk about it. That's not why I called you out here, alright?" She grabbed Hermione's wrist that time and dragged her further into the garden, winding them around and down to the lowest level. "I want Black dead just as much as you do, and through you, I can finally see to it that he ceases to take another breath of borrowed air. Understood?"

"Are you saying that you want me to help you find him?" Hermione blinked. "I – Astoria he hasn't been seen in the city for _ages_. It's been, bloody hell I don't know, two years at least."

"Yes," she sniffed. "I'm aware. I am also aware that Draco has had his men on the lookout for him since long before that, and that they haven't found him because he wasn't _in_ London this entire time." She huffed.

Hermione chewed her bottom lip, catching the glimpse of ice behind Astoria's constricted pupils.

"What – What are you saying?"

"I don't need your help finding him, Penny," she exhaled in a rush of cold air. "I don't need your help finding him because I already found him. I need you to help me kill him." Astoria tightened her grip on Hermione's wrist, leading her to a poorly lit corner of the garden where a limp, starved man was tied up to an iron bench.

Hermione inhaled sharply.

The stir of something dark and angry in the pit of her stomach returned the moment Astoria let go of her to lift the unconscious man's head, revealing the dirty, hollow face of Sirius Black. He looked no worse for wear than he usually did, and Hermione pitied him no more than she usually did as she took in his beaten and bruised body tied to the frosty iron.

"How did you - "

"Never mind that," she snapped.

Hermione nodded. She surveyed the cut on his lip and the weight of his head as it fell limply against his chest when Astoria let go of it. She wiped her hands on her coat and retreated to stand beside Hermione with a shrewd expression.

"I presume," Hermione began, flickering her darkened gaze from the man that nearly took her life in his grimy hands and choked it out; suffocated it. "No one else knows he's here." It was less of a question and more of a fact. A truth – and one that she didn't expect to change.

"What they don't know won't hurt them," Astoria supplied with a gentle shrug.

She was right, of course. Even with Narcissa's blessing to rid the world of Black, that didn't mean that the Order would not try to avenge his death or use it as an excuse to start a war with the Death Eaters. Hermione tilted her head, regarding the petite brunette beside her before sliding her narrowed gaze to the man that had stolen something from both of them.

His death was justified, surely.

She wouldn't feel remorseful.

Besides, he wouldn't be the first man Hermione had killed.

Krum had been more of an animal, and once again had tried to take something from her – the very same something that Black had succeeded in taking from Astoria, along with many other evils, Hermione presumed – so his death had a taint of mercy in it.

This, however, would have no mercy in it.

"We have to wake him up," Hermione finally said, reaching in her coat for the blade tucked into her blouse sleeve. She never went anywhere without it anymore; not since she realized that she had walked into certain death more than once by not always being armed.

"Why?" Astoria snapped, eyes blazing at the man covered in dirt and soot. "He didn't care if I was conscious when he took advantage of me." She turned to Hermione with a cold, unforgiving glare. "I woke up to him _inside_ me. Do you know what that's like, Penny? Do you?" She spat. "And when he realized that I was coming to, do you know what he did? Hm?"

Hermione swallowed a lump in the back of her throat, forcing it down. She shook her head.

"He _laughed_." Astoria snarled, returning her merciless emerald eyes to Black. "He didn't feign shock or even malice at my timely return to consciousness. He fucking laughed. I still hear him cackling when I close my eyes sometimes. Did he laugh when he nearly killed you?" She said, throwing the words at Hermione. "I bet he did."

She paused, then went on. Her words tainting Hermione's morality like poison; like venom.

"He doesn't deserve to have a chance to fight back," raged Astoria, fists clenched. "The fucking bastard doesn't deserve it. He was too much of a coward to try and – he knows I would have gone kicking and screaming – he knows I would have fucking _killed_ him if I – if he didn't knock me out like the wanker he fucking is."

There was a beat of silence where Hermione imagined herself sinking the blade into Black's chest and watching him bleed out before he got the chance to fight back, and she accepted it with a bitter taste in her mouth. But then Astoria spoke up again.

"You know what?" She hissed. "You want him on his feet, Penny? Fine," she lurched forward before Hermione could grab her and smashed Black's face against the iron arm of the bench he was tied up to; he came to screaming, and with blood trailing down his face from a new gash.

"Fuck," Hermione swore.

"What the fu – Oh, hello loves." His anger gave way to an evil mirth, and his dark eyes lingered on Hermione's face before settling ultimately on Astoria's. "Miss me, did you?"

He laughed; the terrible, shrill nail-scraping cackle that rattled both of them. Hermione caught Astoria wincing and shutting her eyes, subtly angling her neck to cover her ears. After seeing the pain in the other woman, and remembering her own near-death experience, there wasn't any hesitation in what came next.

Her hand struck out, like that of a snake, and her blade swept cleanly across the man's vibrating throat. He bled out in a matter of seconds, and then there was just silence, and the vacant sound of cicadas.

Hermione sighed shakily, blinking away the grotesque sight before her. She took a deep breath, settling her nerves and reminding herself that his death was necessary, that it was _earned_ , if that was even a valid reason.

"Come on," Astoria said, nudging her and coming back to her strength. "We have to get rid of the body. Bury it before anyone sees, and then get cleaned up and get back inside before anyone notices how long we've been gone and comes looking for us."

"Right," Hermione nodded, dragging the back of her hand across her cheek and grimacing at the blood that splattered there. "Ok."

* * *

Hermione woke up in a sweat, screaming and thrashing and desperately gasping for air.

The stale air of another late summer heat wave did little to help Hermione cool down as she kicked the sweat-soaked sheets off of her. A warm palm stroking the ridges of her back didn't cool her down either, but it did make her feel slightly better. She turned around to see a familiar silver glint in the dark room.

"Hey," Draco murmured, sitting up to take her cheeks between his hands. "Will you please talk to me?" He paused, searching her face for something, then sighed. "I know there's something bothering you,"

She opened her mouth to tell him that she didn't want to talk about it, but he cut her off with a stern glare. "Don't," he warned, protectively. "Don't tell me it's nothing. Don't tell me not to worry about it. That's what you and I do, alright?" He placed a kiss to her feverish lips and brushed away a damp curl. "We talk to each other, and we worry about each other." He kissed her again. "Fuck, you're hot."

Hermione smirked, tugging at the short hair at the nape of his neck. "I know,"

He rolled his eyes, "That's true but that's not what I meant, and you know it," he remarked, shaking his head and rolling off the bed. He disappeared behind the bathroom door and came back with a damp cloth, placing it to her forehead, neck and chest and letting the cold water soothe her burning body.

"You never actually told me what _your_ nightmares are about," Hermione muttered, arching an eyebrow pointedly at him. She'd figured out that they were from his time in France, but no more than that. He was a vault.

"One day," he promised, though she could see that he wasn't being sincere. Then again, how could she possibly push him to be? She knew what it meant to have ghosts and to be haunted by them when you closed your eyes, so why should she make him have to relive his? She could only imagine how horrible they were.

Draco gave her a gentle nudge for her to lie down and she caught the glimpse of an apology in the silver of his eyes; he must have had a similar thought process to her and decided to let it go. Good.

"Come here," he said, his voice low and gravely.

Hermione curled into his side, running her fingers up and down his torso as he twirled his in her hair. She counted his breaths and let it lull her back to sleep; welcoming the sweet abyss and the security of his arms wrapped securing around her small frame.

The morning came all too quickly and with a harsh, blinding light. "Bloody hell," she croaked, untangling herself from Draco's arms and shaking him awake. Today was not a day to lie in, and therefore they only had a matter of time before Theo, or Narcissa herself, barged in to wake them both up. Clothed or not.

"Hold on," Draco protested, pulling her back down into the array of pillows. "Come here."

"Draco," she chuckled, swatting him playfully as he slid his hands between her silk shift. "We don't have _time_ ,"

"Fuck it," he shrugged, sliding his tongue along her bottom lip as he took her breath in his. She melted in his arms, as she usually did. "Fuck it," he said again, "I'm in charge of this whole bloody organization and I say that we get five more minutes. Fifteen tops," he winked.

"Oh?" She challenged.

"Mhmm," Draco replied smugly, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. His hands renewed their efforts to rid Hermione of her clothing, and this time she didn't bother to stop them. Her own fingers were sliding his linen trousers from his hips.

She took his length and smiled against his lips as he exhaled a satisfying hiss, tugging her roughly closer to him. Closer, closer, _closer_.

"Fuck," Draco groaned, adjusting his three-piece-suit as Hermione came out of the shower, tussling her damp curls with a towel and appreciating the way this particular fit hugged his bum. "I don't want to bloody celebrate another fucking trip around the sun."

Hermione rolled her eyes, selecting one of the three dresses Draco had already pulled out that were stamped with Narcissa's (and Daphne's evidently, who did most of the shopping for the women in the household) approval.

"I don't understand why you don't tell her you don't want to have a celebration. You're the leader of the bloody Death Eaters, Draco, surely you can excise your power in this one area, no?" She leered.

He grimaced, adding a silver time piece to his ensemble – one that she had gifted him that morning between their amazing morning sex and narrowly missing Theo's incoming shoe as she scrambled out of the sheets and towards the shower – and leaning against her bedpost as she changed.

"No," he replied. "I can't. I've tried."

"I highly doubt that," Hermione stated. "I've seen your ambition in action. You clearly didn't try hard enough."

Draco took hold of the hair at the back of her head, twirling it around in his palm and giving it a hard pull, snapping her neck back. He placed a kiss at the base of her throat, followed by a harmless bite and another kiss, then let her go.

"I _did_ try," he insisted. "Mother is… peculiar about birthdays. Always has been. Since I've kept the household on lockdown again, I denied her hosting a larger party."

Hermione frowned, slipping into the pale pink slip and twisting her hair into a chignon low enough to accommodate the matching rose-trimmed hat. "So, if it's just the family then why the bloody hell are we leaving the Manor? I mean, Theo's pub is nice an all that but - "

"Because I already denied her so much apparently," he replied flippantly. "Now, will you desist your interrogation and - "

"Oi!" Boomed Theo, poking his head into the room. "What part of ten minutes don't you two bloody understand? Come on, for the sake of fuck," he slammed the door loudly behind him, and then opened it again seconds later to add, "and by the way, Penny? My pub is not just _nice_. How very dare you," he sniffed.

Hermione laughed, shaking her head. "Bloody Nott," she mused.

Draco met her eye, resting his hand on the small of her back and leading her down the corridor, downstairs and toward the garage where every other family member was all dressed already and filing into the family cars. "Bloody Narcissa," he winked, helping her into the passenger seat.

They were the only ones to drive themselves, the others relied on the house staff. Hermione was irritated to see Kreacher bow low to Potter and open the door for him, something he had never done for her. Theo caught her staring at the exchange and chuckled, tipping his newsboy cap to her.

"Interesting, isn't it?" He remarked.

Hermione lowered the brim of her hat over her eyes and tore her gaze away from Theo's hand on Harry's thigh pointedly. It wasn't that she was bothered by them – honestly, they were a lovely albeit odd couple and aside from the constant bickering, there was only that, small touches, that she'd witnessed – but rather the way it seemed that Theo had been right about Kreacher.

She wondered briefly if Draco or Narcissa had noticed Kreacher's specific animosity to her.

The arrival of the family to the pub – a newer favorite named The Dagger – had been entirely typical.

Draco led the entourage to the entrance with Hermione on one side of him, the two of them walking and muttering under their breath with lingering comments from the conversation that had taken place during the drive over. Narcissa stood to Draco's right, with Astoria on her right, and the two of them had their chins up high and their pale eyes fixed on the posh pub ahead. Blaise, Graham and Marcus fell well behind the leading group because they were bickering and bantering about some inane topic, and Theo was not far behind, dragging Harry by his arm. Vincent and Greg took their time getting out of the family car because they were either tipping back a flask or making sure their snacks were in their pockets.

What was not typical was what happened the moment Theo opened the doors to the pub and let everyone inside.

There were two men waiting for them, propped at a table with one of Theo's Irish whiskey's already open between them. Hermione blinked at the two men. They didn't look familiar, and she usually tried to keep in the habit of remembering faces of those who were either for or against the Death Eaters as well as those who either knew or did not know of Draco and Theo's involvement with the gang.

Hermione was unable to categorize these men, and she was quite certain she hadn't seen or met either of them. She glanced askance to Draco and to Narcissa to gauge whether or not they recognized them. From the tension in both of their shoulders, it was evident that they did not.

"Oi," Theo began, meeting Draco's eye momentarily before inclining his chin at the two strangers. "Who the bloody hell are you two and why the fuck are you in my pub? It's closed in case you couldn't read the bloody sign out front."

The taller of the two men, with his ebony skin and accentuated cheekbones, stared at them with his hazel eyes and tipped the double shot of whiskey to his lips. The other man, the shorter and much paler of the two, regarded them with beady, dark eyes. He was the one to address the gang.

"Aye, we can fookin' read, and you'll be wantin' to watch the way you talk to me, boyo."

Draco's eyes narrowed notably.

"Aye, he knows what I'm talkin' abou'. Don't you, lad?" The man went on, sparking a light. "You'll forgive me, Mr. Nott, if I indulge a little," he gestured to the honey-colored liquor and smirked, "it takes a lot for a Dubliner to show up in yer city, and I'm positively shattered."

Hermione registered a heavy, Irish accent and immediately shrank back between Draco and Theo. Astoria's hand shot out to close around hers, and the women slowly made their way to the sidelines while Blaise and the others shifted forward, subtlety rearranging their formation.

"Anyone with money or good intentions is welcome in London," Theo stated, nodding to his bottle, "and in my pub."

"Is that so?" The Irishman dimpled, a mischievous smile stretching across his lips, twisting them unkindly.

"It is," Draco supplied, tilting his chin forward and puffing out his chest slightly. "So, which will it be? Money?" He paused, sidling up the men and their arguably impeccably well-tailored suits. "Or good intentions?"

"Hm," he grunted. "It's delicate, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco waited approximately twenty-three-seconds before clearing his throat and adjusting his newsboy cap, holding it firmly between his fingers. The others all did the same, lowering their caps and clenching onto them, the silver glinting in the yellowed bar lights.

"How is it that you know our names," Draco announced, "but we don't know yours? I find that to be unspeakably rude, don't you, Mr. Nott?"

"I do, Mr. Malfoy. I really do."

Theo's eyes, characteristically a blue so pale it would closer resemble ice, were dilated so much that they appeared black. His grip on Harry's wrist would likely leave bruises, Hermione mused.

"Oh, my apologies, lads!" Apologized the pale Irishman, though his tone was not apologetic in the slightest. "I am Mr. Seamus Finnigan, and this here is Mr. Dean Thomas."

"Mr. Finnigan," Draco said. "What business do you believe the IRA has here, hm? This is but a friendly pub just north of River Thames."

Finnigan refilled his glass, taking a languid gulp and exhaling loudly. "Aye, it is but a little pub, and one that I'm told the _Death Eaters_ like to frequent." His gaze shifted between Draco and Theo. "Interesting, ain't it? That you lot be the ones to walk in 'ere while I'm expectin' the leader of the fookin' Death Eaters to walk in, eh?" He chuckled. "Very interesting, ain't it, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco's eyes narrowed, and Hermione's breath got caught in the back of her throat. These men were clearly well informed.

"What the fuck do you want?" Theo finally snapped, mouth downturned into a deep grimace.

"Guns, a serious amount of guns," the other man – Thomas – responded. "We know you 'ave 'em so, don't bother fookin' lyin' to us. He may look a right moran," Thomas added, nodding to Finnigan, "but he can do the bloody numbers and besides, errybody from 'ere to the Pale just about 'eard of the robbery."

"Don't know what you're talking about. We heard about the robbery, yes, but we don't have the guns. Have you tried the Order of the Phoenix? They're a shifty bunch," Draco shrugged. "I bet they bloody stole them."

"Funny enough," Finnigan drawled as slowly as an Irishman could, at the same time pausing to take a long drag. "The Order of the fookin' Phoenix pointed their gun at you," his dark eyes twinkled. "Now, what's you to say to that, eh? One of you's is lyin' that's for damn sure."

Again, Draco shrugged.

"Wouldn't be us. I can bloody well afford my own weaponry. I don't need to go around stealing it like those beggars. What fucking use would I have for stolen RSAF guns anyway?"

Finnigan smirked, then stood up. His companion mimicked his motion and in less than a breath both of them had guns pointed at the group. "Yer a clever man, Mr. Malfoy. I'm sure you'd 'ave thought of somethin', eh?"

"What my mate 'here is sayin' is, if you were to 'ear about such guns and things, we would pay good money to take them off yer hands, aye?" Stated Thomas with a glint of duplicity in his eyes.

"You have good money?" Draco drawled, cocking a silver eyebrow.

"You know," Finnigan stated, gesturing to where the women stood off to the side, Greg and Vince angling themselves in front of them. "You got a couple of fine things on yer arm, Malfoy. Ain't nobody mentioned tha'."

"What do you want?" Draco growled.

"What I fookin' want," Finnigan snapped, breaking his cool, carefree exterior to show the rattled, angry man within. His fist slammed onto the table, sending whiskey sloshing around and spilling all over the dark wood. His gun flickered among the group as he shouted his desires. "What I want is for my countrymen to lead their own fookin' nation and not 'ave to answer to you British, prissy lot!"

He finished his glass, then smacked the bottle of whiskey onto the floor; the glass shattered across the room and the sound echoed off of the high beams of the ceiling, carrying with it the sharp intake of breath.

Finnigan and Thomas turned toward the back exit, their weapons still halfway drawn, and the former of the two called out over his shoulder, his original smug expression returned. His voice cool and clipped and venomous.

"Consider this a warnin', eh, Comrade?"

Then, he and Thomas opened fire on them.

It all happened quickly. So, so quickly. Hermione had barely registered what was happening by the time the booming sound of bullets ripping through the air ended. Then, agonizing screams took its place.

She was on the floor. The sound of her blood rushing through her body was enough to let her know that she was still alive, and the aching pain in her lungs let her know that she was still breathing. Hermione took a second to evaluate herself, to check to see if the tingling sensation in her arms and legs were from wounds and not simply nerves and terror. They weren't. She was fine. She was fine. But others weren't. Many others, it seemed.

Hermione propped herself up and spun her head around to look at the chaos before her.

Draco was easy to spot first with his hair glowing a brilliant silver against his pale skin, reminding her of an angel even though she knew he was far from one. He was bent over, his hands covered in dark red and her heart lurched. She sat up and got to her knees to crawl toward him but a weight, wrapped around her wrist, pulled her back.

"Penny," Narcissa clipped coldly. "He's fine. Stay here. She needs you." She paused, her pale eyes flickering to the small figure between them on the floor. "I need you."

Hermione, startled by the confession falling from Narcissa's lips, blinked and let her gaze travel to Astoria. "Oh," she gasped, a shaky hand rising to cover her mouth. "Oh, my fucking god. Is she - "

"I'm not dead, Penny," Astoria snapped, sagging against Narcissa with a disgruntled moan. "I've only been shot," she clarified, wincing as Narcissa tore off her blazer and pressed it firmly against the hole in her thigh.

" _Only?_ " Hermione shrieked, unable to hide the concern in her voice. Her lips quavered and hands tremored as she hastily followed Narcissa's instructions to apply pressure to the wound as she worked on improvising a tourniquet.

"Nott," she heard Draco growl, and shifted to incline her head to see what was going on at his end of the pub entrance. "Nott, for fuck's sake, if you don't _hold still_ , I will kill you myself."

Theo was trying to sit up but the more he moved, the more blood spurted out of the gaping hole in his shoulder. It looked as if the bullet – if not more than one – tore right through his shoulder, possibly shattering his clavicle along with it by the lack of prominent bone in its place.

Harry was huddled on the other side of him, opposite Draco, and he seemed to be joining in trying to get Theo to lay back down and let them wrap something around the wound. His lips were moving as he leaned in closely to Theo's ear; his hands were clamped around Theo's, knuckles flushed. Hermione couldn't make out what he was saying from the wailing coming from another part of the group

" _No,_ " Blaise screamed the same time Graham let out a piercing sob. "Those bastards. Those fucking Irish _bastards_." He hollered, lifting a limp head; from the dark hair and slack, square jaw, Hermione could tell it was Marcus that he was holding. Cradling. It was Marcus in his arms. It was Marcus who was dead.

The ride back to the Manor was brutal.

Hermione rode with Narcissa and Astoria, holding onto the latter for dear life as the former swerved through the streets fast as fucking hell. They were the first to arrive back to the house, and Narcissa swept through the marbled entryway spitting orders at the staff, and clearing a space on the kitchen island for Hermione to hoist Astoria up onto; her head fell from its place in the crook of Hermione's neck to the hardwood top with a sickening thud.

"Fuck," Hermione swore, brushing back her dark hair and grimacing at the slightly blue tint to the woman's extremely pale face. "Fuck, Narcissa," she choked, eying the blood pooling between her legs. "Fuck, she's bleeding out. The tourniquet it's – she's losing a lot of blood! – is she going to die?"

"No," Narcissa quipped, a bottle of liquor and a medical kit in her polished, red-stained hands. "Not if I can fucking help it."

"But - " Hermione trembled, helping Narcissa prep Astoria for the procedure. "But Marcus – He – He - "

"No," she snapped, her pale eyes blazing. "Don't fucking lose your shit now, Penny. Don't think about Flint, right now, think about Astoria. Think about her. She's the one fucking bleeding out on the table right now, alright? Think about her. She needs you, and therefore I need you." Her tinted lips formed a thin, heavily condemning line. "Keep your shit together."

Hermione inhaled sharply, her gaze flickering from Narcissa's stern one to Astoria's blank one and swallowed the pit in the back of her throat.

"Right." She said, taking the needle and metal thread from Narcissa. "I can do this. I can save her."

There was a moment of silence, a moment of reprieve, where everything seemed to stop. Where time itself slowed to the point where Hermione's brain was able to slowly process every sensory input it was receiving. The flutter of Astoria's dark lashes against her translucent cheek sounded like that of a butterfly's wings; the sheen of the silver tools in her blood-stained hands gleamed under the harsh lighting of the kitchen; the background roar of an engine as others pulled into the garage rushed through her veins like the oxygen she inhaled.

"I can do this," she said again, and then got to work.

It wasn't easy. Hermione wasn't a trained professional – not even close to one. She had basic medical training as per requirement by the academy years ago, and she'd had to use the medical kit every now and then to bandage up Draco or Theo or anyone else who came home with cuts and bruises and the like. But she'd never had to stitch up a gunshot wound, and she'd _especially_ never had to stitch one up for someone she cared about.

The bullet had nicked her femoral artery. She _was_ bleeding out. She would die, and soon, if Hermione wasn't able to clamp the artery and sew it back together along with the torn muscles and skin around the hole. First, however, she had to find the fucking bullet that was responsible for this massacre of her leg or she would die regardless of what medical miracle Hermione performed.

Her head instantly snapped up at the sound of Draco's voice as he entered the room, but a quick glance at Narcissa allowed her to focus on saving Astoria's life while she left to see how the men were doing. They ended up setting up camp on a rather wide counter elsewhere in the large kitchen. Hermione tuned them out until it was just white noise.

She was meticulous and she was careful, and her hands had never been more still, despite the fact that their every movement was a calculated risk and probably doing more harm than good.

Against all odds, it seemed, the bleeding stopped. Then the wound was closed up – not prettily; there would definitely be a scar, but still – and color began to creep up on Astoria's face.

Hermione let out an enormous sigh of relief.

She practically collapsed from exhaustion, settling herself in a stool and clasping her hand in Astoria's limp one, murmuring nonsense get well soon's until she felt the pull of sleep drag her into its depths.

Hermione woke with a parched throat and a cramp in her leg. She sat up, rubbed at the crust in her eyes and blinked into the dim lighting to see Harry perched in a similar position to the one she was in with Theo propped up on the counter. He took a long look at her, blinked, and then quirked his mouth up into a wry smile.

She swallowed, grasping for a glass from one of the cupboards and leaving Astoria's side momentarily to stand beside him. He took her proffered glass and the two of them gulped down the cool water before either of them said anything.

"He's alright," Harry said, nodding to the door and not to the unconscious dark-haired man on the counter beside them. "Narcissa thought it would be best to leave you with Astoria and told him not to wake you." She nodded to him, and he continued. "He's alright, too." This time, Harry did nod to Theo. "It was a through and through. He'll heal, and his collarbone will mostly heal itself." He sighed, then looked over her shoulder at the petite brunette on the kitchen island. "You worked a miracle on her you know,"

"I know," Hermione sighed, toying with a hangnail and avoiding his emerald eyes that were only a few shades off from Astoria's. Even if they weren't the same it was still too painful.

"She'll wake up," Harry said, registering her concern and pinpointing it with an unnatural talent.

"You don't know that." She countered, frowning at the man whose hair was incurably messy.

He pursed his lips, taking another sip of water. "No," he agreed finally. "I don't know that, but I have a good feeling. From what I've seen in my short time here, you're quite brilliant. I highly doubt you would give anything less than your best to her, as well."

"Still," Hermione protested weakly. "My best may not be enough."

"She'll wake up," he insisted, nodding curtly.

She swallowed a large gulp of water, then placed the glass down on the counter and shifted her gaze from Theo's evenly rising and falling chest to Harry's clenched jaw. "You say I'm quite brilliant, but you're hardly an idiot yourself. Perhaps, a bit suicidal, but not unclever." She noted, arching an eyebrow at him.

He said nothing.

"The others might not be willing to accept you here despite Theo's insistence that you can be trusted if you don't give them something about yourself worth trusting." She went on, crossing her arms and leaning against the counter. He glanced up at her, his expression faltering briefly to clue her in on his better intentions.

"You know," Hermione said, going on in his lack of verbal response. "If you're going to open up to anyone here besides him," – she nodded to Theo – "it might as well be me. I'm the newest among them, and therefore probably the most understanding of your position. Why did you leave the Order?"

Again, he said nothing, and Hermione sighed and moved back over to sit beside Astoria.

"Him," he finally stated, paired with an exasperated exhale.

Hermione shook her head, "I believe that's part of the reason, obviously, but that's not the whole truth and you know it. You said so yourself when you showed up here in the first place, or did you think I would forget about that?"

"I don't trust them," Harry said after several minutes of silence. Hermione angled herself toward him and motioned with her free hand, the one not in Astoria's, for him to go on. "I – Well, let's just say I found out something and it was rather… unsettling."

She gave him her best No Shit expression and he immediately grimaced.

"Hey," he replied defensively, "You're the one who wanted me to tell you and now, you're going to sit there and pretend like you're better than me? Fuck off,"

Hermione deliberately refrained from sighing or smacking him upside the head for being so thickheaded. "I'm not trying to personally attack you, Potter, fucking relax. I'm just saying _obviously_ you found out something that didn't sit right with you because you're bloody here and not with them. What aren't you telling me? What are you so bloody scared to confess, hm? Did you find out your precious Order is not as high and almighty as you thought they were? They as fucked up as we are?" She let her gaze shift pointedly to Theo's hand in his. "Or more so, I should say."

"I – Fuck you," spat Harry.

She shrugged, "Fine, be that way. I just thought maybe if the time came where you needed an ally then you might find one in me. I guess I was wrong."

"First for everything," he muttered under his breath.

At that, Hermione swung around on the stool and gave him a stern look, one accompanying what would be a very short, very blunt lecture. "Look, Potter," she seethed. "You burned your bridge with the Order, and no matter how many fucking peace treaties you try to enact, they will _never_ stick. You know that because, as I mentioned before, you're not without aptitude. Theo may be around to protect you now, but one day he may not be, or one day it might not be enough, or worse yet, he won't want to protect you anymore. All are very _real_ ," – she nodded to the pink tinted bandage over Theo's bare torso and shoulder – "possibilities and you should be prepared for all of them. Which means having someone on your side besides your lover." He opened his mouth to protest and she held up a finger. "Don't. Unless you plan on explaining yourself, don't fucking say anything."

They stared at each other; his jewel-toned eyes boring into her with a renewed vehemence.

Eventually, as Hermione had predicted, Harry gave in. He didn't look any more pleased about it, but she – as she so often was – had been infallibly logical. "My father," he stated. "James Potter was a Marauder. He was one of the original members of the Order of the Phoenix before he was murdered."

He paused and Hermione let her chin fall in condolence.

"He was a Marauder. So was Remus Lupin, Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew." His eyes glazed over and Hermione found herself reminiscing the night Narcissa signed Pettigrew's death warrant and Harry's eccentric reaction, as well as her own hands covered in mud from digging Black's grave. Three Marauders down. One left.

"Because of my father," Harry went on, clearing his throat. "I was granted a special place in the Order and welcomed in some of their higher up meetings. It was the last one – the one right before I saw Theo and ran here – that I found out who I really follow and what they really wanted. What they really represented."

Hermione tilted her head, analyzing the micro-expressions across Harry's face and filing them away in her mind.

"There was a new man," he explained, absentmindedly toying with the dark curls that fell in Theo's closed eyes. "I didn't trust him right away because he didn't fight in France, and when he started going on about the destruction of the Death Eaters and the general corruption of the city, I got the feeling that he was commanding the Order, _using them_ , for his own agenda. That we didn't matter to him. That our lives didn't matter."

His eyes met hers and the pain behind them made her skin crawl.

"Then, I realized where I recognized his face from and it all just – I couldn't handle it anymore. I couldn't be part of it." He shook his head, brushing his thumb across Theo's knuckles.

"Who was he?" Hermione pressed.

Harry gave her a lopsided grin, "Sorry, Penny, but you know as well as I do that. I can't very well tell you all my secrets."

Her mouth twisted downwards, but she nodded to him. "Fair enough, Potter."

* * *

The next week was marked by an unrelenting grey cloud. Both metaphorically and literally. It followed their family around and soaked them in rain, depression, and doubt. The Death Eaters had never truly felt invincible, but now the reality of the statement was marked by their uniformed black attire and the recently dug grave in the cemetery down the road.

The scent of roses overwhelmed Hermione's nose, but she welcomed it and basked in it because she knew it was far better than the smell of dying flesh as the heavy casket was lowered. Six feet under. The women all took turns tossing a white, thorny rose onto the dark wood and murmuring a prayer for Marcus. He was loved. He was valued. He was fucking _missed_.

When it was the men's turn, they each tossed a rose and shoveled a pile of – miraculously dry – dirt into the grave. Draco was the first to do so, and when he returned to her side, she could see from the familiar and terrifying glint in his grey eyes that a storm was brewing. A reckoning was coming. Marcus would be avenged. The IRA would pay for what they did; for what they took from their family; for the life they ended far too young.

Back at the Manor, Dobby and Winky kept the alcohol flowing.

They hadn't risked leaving the Manor much over the past week, and they weren't especially keen on going to any of Theo's pubs anytime soon and specifically not on a day like today. They weren't afraid. They were practical. They were cunning.

Besides, Astoria was still bedridden (even though she pushed that particular limit nearly every hour against Hermione and Narcissa's very clear instruction). Theo was far from fully healed, but he was well enough to wear a simple sling and send shots to the back of his throat with his better arm, one after another, after another, _after another._

He collapsed in a drunken heap against the sofa and slung his good arm over Hermione's shoulders, regarding her warily before letting a sloppy grin spread across his face. "You, Penny," he slurred. "You are a very," – a pause for a hiccup – "very special person."

"Mhmm," she agreed, her own head thick with the haze of intoxication. "So is Harry, right? Or why else would you risk your friendship with Draco, your own fucking _life_ , to keep him here?"

Theo shook his head, tapping a finger to her nose first and then his own. "Hit the – the nose on the head – the hammer on the – the nail on the hammer." She laughed and he did, too, hiccupping through it. "You don't even _know_ ," he drawled.

"Know what?" Hermione blinked.

"You don't even know, Penny," he told her. "You don't even know the fucking – the fucking half of it. No idea. You don't." Theo fumbled through his pockets for a cigarette and a matchbox, then lit his own and handed her own, lighting it as well. They both inhaled smoke and exhaled wide grins. "The shit – the fucking _shit_ that we've been through."

"Oh," Hermione nodded, leaning her head back against the cushions and letting her eyes wander around the room. They settled on her favorite blond as he bent his head toward Narcissa and Blaise. "France, right?"

Theo coughed and sat up straight, glowering at her. "Penny," he glowered. "You don't fucking _know_. Not just – I mean like _we_ – like fucking Draco and Harry and I." He registered the confusion across her face and went on. "In fucking France. We were all in the same squad, right? Like fucking together. For the whole bloody war. Or most of it. Anyway," he hiccupped. "Harry and I, we fucking like, saved Draco's life. We did. That smug fucker would've died in 1915 if it wasn't for us. That's why," he said with a conspiratorial smirk. "That's why he can't kill me, or Potter. Of course, he's special. They both are. You are." He chuckled under his breath. "I guess we all are."

Hermione, again, blinked. "What?" She croaked. "He – You – How?"

"Hm," Theo nodded. "Good question."

He took a long drag from the cigarette and then tapped her thigh impatiently with his fingertips, then leaned in closer to her. He was steeped in the familiar scent of sandalwood and whiskey.

"Well?" Hermione pressed, managing to keep this particular focus long enough to pull together a string of thoughts that was not as nonsensical as her other conversations that evening had been. "What happened? How did you save his life?"

"How did Potter and I save his life," Theo corrected with a wink. She rolled her eyes then nodded along eager to find out. He leaned back and she did as well, both of them finishing their cigarettes and exhaling a cloud of smoke around them. Secluding them from the rest of the family in their cozy corner. "We hatched a plan," he paused, shaking his head. "Wait. I have to start from the beginning."

She nodded, then closed her eyes and let his memory wash over her; let the story encompass her.

"We were in the south of France. It was somewhere near the border of Italy, but I couldn't tell you the name of the bloody town right now. Anyway, it was fucking _dark_ because it was winter, and it was the middle of the night and Draco decided he wanted to go get himself fucking killed. Fucking idiot," Theo supplied, setting the scene. "So, he goes off on some stupid crusade to save the rest of us and take on the fucking Italians because they just got themselves fucking involved in the bloody _war to end all wars_. Fucking idiots."

Hermione reached absently for Theo's hand, and was surprised and relieved when he didn't pull away from her.

"Draco goes to take on the fucking Italians all by himself because – fuck, I don't know, because he was our fucking leader – and so, Harry won't let it happen. The fucking rebel he is. He goes off after him, but I'm not a heavy sleeper and I'm also not fucking _stupid_ like the two of them so, I follow him." Theo tells her.

She imagines the scenario as he plays it out for her: Draco, surrounded by Allied Powers and outnumbered, willing to risk his life for his men and his country and sacrifice himself to prevent them from advancing and – fuck, I'm pissed – alright, fuck it, I'm not getting into this right now. Basically, Harry and I saved his arse _and_ we bloody stomped on those mafia bastards."

Hermione regarded his stiff posture and stoic expression warily, squeezing his hand in hers. He gave her a sidelong glance and she could have sworn that among his three heads, at least one of them was smiling at her.

"Pen," Draco breathed, appearing in her vision in all of his golden glory. He held out a hand to her, helping her up and pulling her close to him despite all of the eyes on them. She stiffened momentarily, then melting in his arms. As she always did. "Pen," he said again, murmured into her chestnut curls.

"Draco," she whispered back, clutching onto him by the loose strands of his hair, holding him close to her. Ever closer. Never close enough. "I'm here, Draco. I'm here. I love you, Draco. I'm not leaving you," she hiccupped, tasting salt on the tip of her tongue as it streamed down her cheeks – or was it from his?

"I know," he sighed, and she heard rather than felt the weight leave his shoulders from the two simple words. "I know, Pen, I know. I love you. Fuck I – I really fucking love you. I need you."

"I'm not going anywhere, Draco, I promise. I fucking _promise_." She assured him, both of them clutching onto each other for dear life and riding the intoxication all the way up the stairs in a flurry of hands here and mouths there and promises.

Promises and climaxes and endless I love you's and I know's and I'm here's.

* * *

 **A/N -** The title of this chapter was from Kendrick Lamar's song _HUMBLE_ from the lines _pull up on your block, then break it down / we playing tetris_ xx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The update schedule for this storyverse has now been posted on my tumblr (https://hathawaywrites.tumblr.com/post/622904190760632320/taobtaod-update-schedule)


	9. Started to Say Sorry

**Chapter 9: Started to Say Sorry**

* * *

_24 December 1924_

_BELOVED BACHELOR MISSING: A REFLECTION OF HIS LIFE AND LEGACY_

_By Rita Skeeter_

_The official notice of Mr. Draco Malfoy as a missing person has rocked Great Britain to its core and we humbly wait for an update and have our fingers and hearts crossed for that news to be not only good, but the very best it could be. However, given the arrival of a healer to the Malfoy Manor this morning, as well as the continued lack of statement from anyone inside the Manor – namely Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy – it can be presumed that the young bachelor's health is in critical risk. So much so that he was too ill to attend the Christmas Gala! May we all pray for a speedy recovery._

_As I have tried to make very evident, with the help of the_ Daily Prophet _, Mr. Malfoy's presence in our society has been immensely positive and beneficial and we sincerely hope that he is well and will return to us as soon as possible._

Well, fuck.

Me too, Rita, me fucking too.

Here we are, at the very end of Rita's horrendous tribute to Draco. She wasn't entirely far off in regard to Draco's health as I'm sure it is very much the reason for his absence – though, again, I do hope I am wrong and that his life is not in as much danger as I fear it is. Mine, too. I want to believe that I can save his life, even if it costs mine to do so. I will try my fucking best, of course, not to die in the process which means I need to put this bloody paper down and get the fuck out of the car now.

* * *

_22 December 1924_

Hermione sank into the bathtub and let the steaming water soothe her sore breasts and muscles; this menstrual cycle coming up would be a brutal one if her current aches and pains were any indication. She twisted her chestnut curls into a messy bun atop her head and leaned her head against the cool porcelain, but just as she closed her eyes and began to feel the cramps subside, a voice caused her eyes to snap open.

"Here," Draco said, stepping into the bathroom and holding out a wine glass for her.

When she reached a bubbly hand out to take it from him, though, he pulled it back and arched a condescending silver brow at her. Hermione frowned; her eyes narrowed. "What are you doing?" She asked, eyes trailing down the impeccable oxford clinging to his puffed chest as he pulled up a seat beside the tub. "Draco," Hermione warned, "Give me the glass."

"Not until you tell me what the fuck you and Astoria are hiding from me." He replied without missing a beat.

There it was.

The inevitability of _them_ included the inevitability of fighting now, apparently.

Ever since Marcus' death, emotions had been running at an all-time high in the Manor. Where before the men and the women in the Manor's dark corridors, dripping in its expensive fabrics, had been in check of their baser needs, they were now incontrollable and volatile. Hermione wasn't immune to the new wave of hysteria, and she was no more willing to suppress it either.

She remembered a time when conversation between her and Draco had been intellectual and stimulating and full of secrets and plots. Now, it was more or less one argument or another, leading to either rough, senseless fucking or a string of unforgiving words. Always ending with a mutter – a _choke_ – of I love you and I need you and I know. Spat out like venom and infecting each other just as similarly.

"Are we really about to do this again?" Hermione snapped. "Aren't you tired of having this argument, Draco? I know I am." She pursed her lips and tried her best to relax her shoulders so as not to give away the truth behind his accusations. The grey storm brewing in his irises was bad enough. He'd been onto her and Astoria for some time now; as if the death of Marcus had somehow woken a sixth sense of his and returned them to a time where she was no longer worthy of his trust.

Which was true, she had been lying to him. Hiding from him. But still. It was upsetting to think that they had come all this way to end up back where they started. Hermione was sick of it; quite literally nauseous.

"Yes," he growled. "We're bloody doing this again, and we'll _keep_ bloody doing it until you stop fucking lying to me."

Hermione's lips twitched downward.

"Well?"

His tone was ice.

The distaste dripping from her mouth grew to mirror his, then she carefully reigned her expression back to nonchalance and gave him her best apathetic shrug.

"There's nothing to discuss," she stated, muttering an additional, "per usual," under her breath. Except, Draco caught it. His eyes narrowed into dangerous slits and Hermione's pulse quickened unhelpfully. The usual bout of nausea she'd been fighting all day reared its head again, but she swallowed the slick at the back of her throat and sat up, sloshing the warm water onto the tile floor.

"What are you hiding, Penny?" Draco glowered.

"Nothing," she seethed, the anger boomeranging back into her veins in a matter of seconds from his dangerous tone.

He was fast as lightning, and about as unforgiving. His hand shot out, fingers tangled in her curls, and he yanked her head back so that she had no choice but to stare into his dark, murderous gaze. "Don't," Draco began in a low, almost inaudible voice. Though it was as terrifying as when he screamed so loud his voice rasped dry and beaten. "Don't fucking lie to me. Again."

Hermione held her own.

Or tried to.

Her gaze flickered down to his clenched jaw, then back up to his stormy eyes before she replied. Slowly and calculating and as convincingly as she could. "There's nothing to tell, Draco. Ask Astoria if you don't fucking believe me but take your fucking hands _off_ of me." She swung her hand out, connecting it with his forearm between their inclined necks with a brute force she didn't know that she possessed.

Draco let go of her, but he didn't back away. He didn't back down. He simply kept his icy, silver gaze trained on her face; she knew he was searching for something, looking for any twitch of muscle – any sign of deceit – that he could grasp like a loose thread and pull and pull and _pull_ until he discovered where it lead. What it was that she was hiding.

"I will get to the bottom of this, Penny. You'll regret not disclosing it to me when I do," his pale eyebrows furrowed as he murmured the last part into the air between them. The electricity between them sparked and flared as it normally did; Hermione withered a little despite knowing that particular fact about them hadn't changed.

She arched a dark eyebrow, swiping the red-stained glass from his grip. "Is that a threat, Draco?"

"No," he laughed, twisting his lips upward to mock her. "You know how I loathe threatening people."

"Not as much as you loathe having to explain your threats." Hermione dared to quip, earning a sharp turn from Draco as he stood under the door archway. His eyes – always a clue to his truer intentions – were blazing and furious, sending chills up Hermione's spine despite the scalding water she was submerged in.

For a moment, for the briefest moment, she feared that he would turn and storm back into the bathroom and put his hands on her. But then he gave her a sneer and disappeared through the doorway.

Hermione deflated. "Where are you going?" She hollered, sloshing the water all over the tile floor as she shot to her feet and stumbled over the lip of the tub to get out of it. "Draco! Where are you – _Ah!_ " She slipped. It was stupid. The floor was soaked; she was rushing to catch up to him and forgot about the wine in her hand.

The floor – originally a beautiful pattern of black and white so soothing it would settle an obsessive-compulsive person's nerves – swam with red. Whether it was from the wine or her blood or a combination of both, she was uncertain.

"Fucking Christ, Penny," Draco swore under his breath, appearing once again in the doorway. His arms, strong and clad in an expensive suit, wrapped around her waist and pulled her up. Hermione didn't feel his eyes scouring over her naked body. She didn't feel him smooth aside her damp curls and settle her atop the bathroom counter. She didn't feel anything.

She felt numb.

"Draco," she murmured, blinking away the blurriness in her vision and focusing it on the soft glint of stubble on his cheek. "What - " Her glance slid over his tensed shoulders to see the red stains soaking his suit as well as the bathroom floor. Hermione's brows furrowed and her breathing hitched. "What happened?"

Draco's face, previously contorted with a mix of concern and disapproval, slacked. "You don't – Penny, don't you remember?" His eyes danced across her face, and she slowly turned her head from one side to the other. "Fuck, Pen." Draco raked a bloodied hand – Was he bleeding? Was it her blood? It had to be, right? – through his hair and sighed. "You fell. Slipped, I think."

"Oh," she replied dumbly. She couldn't recall. Her hand levitated to her head, trying to locate the origin of the pins and needles. Her fingers slid through her damp curls and retracted suddenly as they touched somewhere along her hairline. "Ouch, _fuck_ ," she hissed.

Her hands were readily replaced by Draco's; his dexterous fingers making quicker work of locating the gash in her forehead. He winced at the same time she did. "You - " He paused, eyes flickering down her body once more. "Stay here."

The chill in the air returned the moment Draco swept out of the room, and a shiver ran up the back of Hermione's spine. Her gaze dropped to her palms, catching a glimpse of glass shimmering – and red. A lot of red. She was trying to rack her brain for what happened when a flush of heat sent her head swimming. By the time Draco returned with Dobby, Hermione had emptied the entirety of her stomach content into the toilet.

"Pen," whispered Draco, the rough of his palm trailing down the ridges of her spine as he draped a towel around her. "Come on," he lifted her and directed her toward her bed, taking care to lower her gently.

Hermione went through the motions as Draco, with the added help of Dobby, washed the glass out of her hands, forearms, and knees – from where she must have crawled across the floor to the toilet to be sick – and cleaned the wounds with a stinging splash of vodka. The curtains were drawn to envelop the room in more darkness than it already contained; the silver glint of Draco's eyes shone more prominently, like that of the moon.

Her head was fuzzy and throbbing, but Hermione managed to slowly point out, "You think I have a concussion?"

"Dobby," Draco ordered. The long-time servant of the Malfoy's inclined his head in his master's direction. "Don't tell Mother." He paused wrapping Hermione's palms with gauze to give Dobby a stern, fear-inducing glance. "Don't. That's a bloody order, understood?"

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy, sir," replied Dobby obediently. "Dobby will not tell Mistress, sir."

"Dobby send a message to Mr. Bagman that I will be an hour late to our meeting. Throw in a bottle of our finest gin with the notice." He sighed, eying the blood stains on his suit. For once, not caused by harm he had himself personally inflicted on another person.

Dobby loitered for a moment.

With a firm nod, Draco dismissed him and shifted to sit beside Hermione on the bed. He patted her ankle, almost absentmindedly, and tilted his head back, craning his neck toward the canopy draped over the four-poster bed. His hair falling in front of his eyes for a brief moment before he hastily swept it away and lowered his eyes to meet hers.

Hermione shuddered, ice filling her veins despite the heavy blankets wrapped around her.

"Penny," growled Draco. Thunderstorms boomed in his eyes; the grey nearly completely encompassed by the black. "What the fuck is going on with you? Ever since – Well – You and Astoria have been attached at the hip, and I'm not jealous - "

"You sound jealous," mumbled Hermione through forcible swallows of foul-tasting medicine.

"I'm _not_." Draco seethed. "I'm the head of this household, Penny. The fucking head of the Death Eaters. I need to know everything that goes on involving its members. _Everything_." He gritted his teeth, "I can't have these fucking secrets between us. I can't. I need to know everything. I need to protect you so that – fuck, I just need to, ok?"

"I can protect myself, Draco," she snapped. Her eyes drooped, and she fought to keep them open. The numbness of the medicine was warming her from the inside out; drops of perspiration forming on the base of her neck. "And since when did you preach about honesty? You don't seem to need to know what Narcissa is ever up to, especially when it involves Astoria. So, why the bloody hell do you care now?"

He scoffed, "Are you – are you fucking serious right now?" Draco stood up abruptly, loosening his tie and beginning to strip off the stained clothes from his tensed muscles, one article of clothing at a time. "I can't believe you. You think just because you're my – that I – How long have you been here, Penny, hm? You're family."

"I'm not," countered Hermione.

Draco paused, placing his signet ring on the bedside table with a clang.

"That could change."

Hermione's throat dried; her tongue sat thick and helpless against the roof of her mouth. "Listen," said Draco with an exasperated sigh. "We'll talk about this later. I have to shower and change. Bagman is expecting me and if Mother hears about what happened she'll have both of our heads for disrupting the deal." He sighed, returning to the endeavor of stepping out of his trousers. "Not to mention I have to – Never mind."

"What? You have to _what_ , Draco?" Hermione asked, struggling to fight the wave of nausea that came when she sat up against the head of the bed.

"Don't worry about it," he clipped in response. "Just fucking lie down and rest, will you? Here," he shoved the glass bottle into her hands along with a silver spoon. "Take another dose or two."

Hermione was about to open her mouth to protest his coddling and insist that she was perfectly capable of handling herself, thank you very much. It was a stupid fall (apparently). That was all. But then she noticed the labeling on the bottle and tried to piece together why a simple liquid pain reliever was making her feel so groggy and sleepy. Not to mention the fact that every word that came out of her mouth felt forced and –

"Did you _drug_ me, Draco Malfoy?" She snarled.

He was halfway to the bathroom by then but had spun slowly to look down at her over his obscenely arrogant nose. "Excuse me?" There was no venom, no trace of resentment, lingering in his voice. Where Hermione had normally expected there to be when she falsely accused him of something.

"You did!" Her jaw dropped and she slammed the vial onto the bedside with so much passion that half of the items littering it had dispersed among the floor. Her head throbbed and pulsed unhelpfully, but she blinked through it and twisted her lips into a furious frown. "How _dare_ you? Let me guess – sodium amytal? You really think that is going to help you discover what I'm so-called hiding from you?"

Draco shrugged.

"Fuck you," she spat. "You really want to know?" Hermione panted, screaming the next sentiment at his obstinately stoic expression. Dying to drag some form of reaction out of him. "We killed Sirius Black! There – are you fucking happy now? Will you _leave me alone_ about it now?"

The corner of his mouth twitched.

For a moment, she wondered if he wouldn't react. If he wouldn't because either he didn't believe her, or that he genuinely expected something more sinful. Perhaps killing another man – a relative if nothing else – meant nothing to the Death Eaters so long as that person was an enemy. Or at least, a perceived one.

Then, he exploded.

His face contorted into the very devilish form she anticipated all those years ago whenever she upset him or disappointed him or simply did not give him what he wanted. The whereabouts of Frank Longbottom? The forgiveness for when he traded her to Viktor Krum? The gun he planned to aim at Theo's head?

"You _what_?" He bellowed. "Are you fucking serious? Are you – Do you have _any idea_ – You don't even know what you've done and – I can't do this. I can't do this right now, Penny. I have to go. I have to fucking go."

"Where are you going?" Hermione fumed as Draco reached for a robe and disregarded the idea of showering and changing in her newly cleaned bathroom. "Where are you _going_?" She demanded, brows furrowed and heart racing. "Draco! _Draco!_ "

However, the only response she got was the deafening boom as the heavy wooden door slammed shut, leaving her to wallow in silence.

Before she could fully succumb to exhaustion, a trilling voice sounded from the door as it swung open.

"What was that all about? Draco looked ready to murder someone, and while I appreciate that look not being thrown in my direction for once, I wonder who the poor soul is that is about to suffer his wrath." Astoria said, gesturing lazily over her petite shoulder as she strode into the room and took in Hermione's bandaged body. "Oh, fuck, Penny. What happened to you? Is that why Draco - "

"No," she cut in quickly, pulling herself up and welcoming Astoria into the spot beside her on the bed. The petite woman took care to favor her leg – the one that Hermione had not had to perform near-surgery on only six months ago – as she settled beside her. Hermione blinked away from where Astoria's skirt rose up. She felt bile at the back of her throat imagining what the scar looked like. "I'm fine." She insisted. "I just… slipped. It was an accident. Draco's – Well, I don't want to talk about it."

Astoria pursed her lips disapprovingly; her sage green eyes twinkled. "Fair enough." Then, she reached out a pale hand and brushed away the curls that had fallen over the butterfly bandage on Hermione's scalp. "Do you want to talk about this?" Hermione shook her head, and Astoria sighed. "If he did this to you - "

"He didn't," insisted Hermione, jerking away from Astoria's grasp with vehemence. "I told you, I fell. It was stupid. Can you just let it go?"

"Fine." Astoria grumbled. "But if he so much as lays a hand on you, I swear - "

She groaned, "He _didn't._ He won't. Bloody hell, Astoria,"

The other woman's icy glare didn't let up. She merely dropped her gaze to the rest of Hermione's bandages, fixating on her wrought hands before leveling her green eyes to Hermione's chestnut ones. "I know he didn't. He wouldn't still be walking and breathing if he had. Still…" Catching the other woman's displeasure, she moved on swiftly to a new topic. "I won't be able to attend the gala tomorrow evening."

"I know," Hermione lamented.

"But," she went on, intertwining her delicate fingers between Hermione's, "I won't be around the Manor either to make sure you're well taken care of so, be on your best behavior. I won't tell Narcissa about this – God knows she'd have a right fit about your appearance, and that's just the beginning – but don't you dare try to attend the gala either. Stay in bed. Make up whatever lie it takes to get out of it."

"Astoria, you can't be - "

"Serious? I am, Penny. Don't do anything stupid." Her eyes narrowed into slits, effectively silencing any more opposition on Hermione's part. Then, they let up as she tilted her head to the side and regarded the bushy-haired woman with affection. "You don't know how valued you are in this family."

By now, Hermione was so deep undercover that she was quite certain there was no way out of this life that she created. Her life as Penelope Clearwater; her life as an honorary Death Eater – there was some ceremonial event that she hadn't been subject to yet so technically she was still only _honorary_ – and more than those, her life with Draco.

With all of them.

They were her family.

They were more of a family to her than she had ever had before. She cherished them; valued them more than she imagined they could ever value her. Then, a sudden thought plagued the sweet memories of her time in the Manor (pretending to sleep when Draco come home late and slipped under the covers, pranking Theo with the help of Harry when the frost didn't allow them to escape the house, attending the shotgun wedding of Greg and Millie and welcoming their firstborn a few months later) and her blood ran cold.

"Astoria," she hiccupped, tears streaming down her face and racking sobs catching in her throat.

"Hey," whispered Astoria. "What's wrong? Why are you crying?"

Hermione swiped furiously at her eyes, blinking through the blurriness to see Astoria's pale green eyes and bit down on her lip. "Draco," she croaked; the name ripping through her lungs. "Draco – I – He – What if he doesn't come back? What if he doesn't forgive me?"

"That's nonsense - "

"I told him, Astoria. I bloody _told_ _him_." She paused, catching the realization dawn over the other woman's normally soft features, hardening them. Reminding Hermione of the signature quiet fury that Draco did not inherit. Reminding Hermione in the most terrifying way of Narcissa.

"I didn't mean to," she blurted out, the words spilling into the dark space between them. Pleading. "I swear it just – it was the medicine – and I couldn't _help_ it. I couldn't lie. I couldn't lie." More hiccups. "I've never been a gifted liar – No, that's not true. I've been lying this whole time. You have no idea." The tears were falling faster than she could swipe them away, staining her flushed cheeks in their salty regret.

Astoria was silent.

"Oh, god," Hermione sobbed, lifting a hand gingerly to her forehead. It was throbbing more so than before and now her nausea had returned with some added cramps. She felt so ill, both inside and out. "What have I done, Astoria? What have I done? I've done something terrible. I'm not – I'm not – Draco will _never_ forgive me. None of you will. None of you. Oh my god. Oh my _god_ ,"

She collapsed against the pillows, covering her face with her bandaged hands and letting the wave of guilt run her over – crash into her and drown her.

"Penny," came a quiet voice. Floating somewhere near her ear.

"I'm _not_ ," she wailed in response.

The rushing of blood to her head and the heavy, rhythmic beat of her frantic heart drowned out any further attempts Astoria made to get her attention. Hermione might as well have been six-foot under from how little she actually heard from the other woman. All she could picture was Draco – furious and betrayed and _murderous_.

Hermione was so lost in her thoughts that she didn't register her hands being peeled from her face and soft lips pressing against hers, but when she did register what was happening, it struck her like lightening. She blinked.

Astoria pulled away, dark brows furrowed and rosy pink lips downturned.

"Pull yourself together." She reprimanded unkindly. Then, she slipped off the high mattress and padded quietly toward the door. Astoria paused momentarily at the door to toss one last sentiment over her delicate shoulder, "If you're so talented a liar, then you should have no issue staying here tomorrow. Don't do anything stupid."

* * *

Hermione woke the next morning – or late afternoon, rather – with a debilitating migraine but quickly called for Dobby to bring in some pills for her, then reminded him of his master's wish for her fragile state to remain under wraps. He nodded his assent before ducking back out of the room and leaving her to her own devices.

As she stepped off the bed, she bit down on her lip to prevent a shrill cry from escaping. Hermione clutched the sole of her foot and grimaced at the tiny golden object she'd stepped on. Draco's signet ring. She thought about tossing it out the window into the abyss of Narcissa's gardenias, coated with a soft blanket of snow. She thought about leaving it in the fireplace or pawning it off just to spite him.

Hermione did none of those, however, and simply slipped it onto her left ring finger (the only one that it would fit).

It was difficult but not impossible to remove the bandages and apply _just enough_ make up to cover and marks that the slinking satin gown did not. Its long sleeves – which she had initially upturned her nose to when Daphne presented her with the dress over a week ago – were now her saviors. Taming her curls to cover the edge of her hairline where the deep cut had begun to heal over was difficult, but again, she managed.

She wasn't missing out on the gala.

Fuck _that_.

To hell with Astoria and her demands, and to hell with Draco's continued absence. She was going to attend the gala with Theo as planned and confront Draco when he showed up for his ridiculous speech. Some Man of the Year he is; if only the general public had any idea of the man they had carelessly fallen so in love with (though, she was hardly one to talk because was she not in the same detrimental situation?).

Draco was less of an angel and more of a fallen one.

"Penny," Theo smirked, buttoning his suit as he stood up to greet her formally. "About time you grace us with your presence."

"I keep to myself for one day and you're already a mess. My goodness, Theo, does Harry know how badly you've suffered in my absence?" She shook her head playfully, taking his arm and letting him lead her to the car. "Where is everyone else?" Hermione asked, glancing around the garage to see two other cars missing. One of them belonging to the other half of her damaged heart.

"They already went ahead," he supplied readily. "Here," he said, offering her a glinting silver flask. "This should help take off the edge of the unbelievably long evening we have ahead of us. I am quite looking forward to lurking around the palace, though I wish it didn't come at the cost of having to socialize with its occupants. Fuck – especially the King," Theo grumbled.

Hermione shook her head at the blatant disrespect for the head of their great nation and took the cold metal from his proffered hand. The scent of cinnamon and whiskey wafted through her senses moments before what little that sat in her stomach found its way out of the side of the car.

"Holy fuck, Penny!" Theo exclaimed, skidding across the leather seats to pat her back and wipe at her mouth carefully with his handkerchief.

"Sorry," mumbled Hermione. She coughed into the handkerchief and leaned back against the seat as Kreacher lurched the car into motion again, speeding toward the city center. "I'm fine."

"Are you, though? No offense, but you don't look like." He asked, blue eyes searching her flushed face. She nodded, then made a concerted effort to dab at the beads of sweat forming on her hairline while not daring to expose her cut. "Is that why you've been avoiding us? You don't feel well?"

"It's nothing," she assured him. Hermione coughed once more, then took the flask and tipped it back to prove herself despite the lingering nausea. "I told you, I'm fine." Hermione regarded Theo with as much of a stern look as she could muster as he helped her out of the vehicle and up the stairs, branding a finger at him. "Don't you _dare_ tell Narcissa about this."

"Tell me about what?"

Hermione blanched. Her automatic response was a slur of trying to wave it off as nothing. However, at the same time, Narcissa had already cornered Theo and discreetly wrapped her hand around his wrist, fixing her icy glare onto him. "Spill." Much to Hermione's dismay, he did.

"Penny's ill." Theo muttered, pausing to nod and smile to the few reporters stood outside. Hermione tried to plaster a false smile across her lips, knowing that her role as the unknown brunette on Theo's arm was imperative if she didn't want anyone to speculate about her actual involvement with the bloody Man of the Year.

"Ill?" Narcissa prodded, her eyes gliding past Theo's dark hair to Hermione's unruly curls. "Bloody hell, I don't have time for this. Draco's still not here yet, and Pansy and Daphne are having some form of row or something. I don't even know anymore. Theodore – go find them and sort it out, will you? I'll deal with Penny here."

"Right, no problem," he replied, nodding obediently.

Her hand shot out to close around his wrist once more, and he turned toward her with a quizzical expression, arching his eyebrows. "For the love of god, Theodore," Narcissa hissed. "Be discreet. I don't need that horrible Skittle woman writing another article about them crying over Draco or something to the likeness of that. You know how much I detest playing maid, cleaning up all of your dirty work, and I don't need something as petty as a love scandal on top of it."

"Of course," Theo said. He dimpled at her, then disappeared among the crowd of aristocrats.

Hermione cleared her throat gently when the other woman turned slowly to face her. "It's Skeeter, by the way. Rita Skeeter."

"I don't give a flying fuck what her name is, Penny. All I know is she makes my life more difficult and as much as I would love to do away with her, I can't." Her tone and her facial features warned Hermione against anymore smartass retorts. Which was fine, because she didn't have any more to say to Narcissa on the subject anyway. She wasn't exactly _wrong_ with her observations on the nasty woman.

Hermione hardly had a second to catch her breath or school her face into vacant pleasantness before Narcissa whisked her away to an obscured corner. Her hand struck out like that of a cobra's and grasped harshly to Hermione's breast.

"Ouch!" She cried, biting down on her lip and wrestling out of Narcissa's reach. "What the bloody hell did you do that for?"

"Penny," the older woman said cautiously. "How late are you?"

"Late?"

"Yes. Late." She sighed. "I was wondering why you haven't touched your sanitary towels yet this month. Winky tells me everything, you see. At first, I supposed that you were ignoring them intentionally – that you and Draco had an understanding. Now, I can see that's not the case. Is it? You two didn't plan this, did you?"

"Narcissa, I'm – I'm not pregnant!" Hermione hissed in a low tone, darting her eyes over the woman's shoulder to the guests filing into the palace. "I'm going to bleed this week. I'm not pregnant. I can't be, there's no way."

"There's no way?" Narcissa scoffed. "Surely, Penny, you won't continue to lie to me. I can guarantee you won't find it nearly as fruitful as you think it will be. I am not stupid, nor am I new to this sort of thing. I was there for both Marietta _and_ Millicent if you recall. Not to mention, I went through a pregnancy of my own," her pale eyes twinkled knowingly at Hermione, making her cringe under their scrutiny.

"But - "

"You're in shock." Narcissa ruled, looping her arm in Hermione's and nodding to someone approaching them. It was Theo with Pansy and Daphne on either side of him, both sobbing. Hermione wasn't sure as to why either woman was crying but suddenly tears welled in her eyes as well. She sniffled as Narcissa directed them all back towards the cars. "Now, we're going to get out of here. We're going to go home and sort this shit out. I won't have the entire United Kingdom trading rumours of our family for their vile entertainment."

"Here," Theo said, stopping their entourage just before the palace doors opened to the few privileged reporters standing beside the sleek cars waiting to take them away. "Narcissa, you take these two. It will be much easier explained if you are escorting them and I am escorting Penny. Do you think they," – he cocked his head toward the door, then mouthed the rest – "know about Draco?"

"If they didn't notice his failure to turn up to his own celebrated event, then I don't doubt it will take them long after we all pile out looking like this," she groaned, taking his advice and tucking both of the other women under her glittering arms. "Make sure to hide her face from them," she added, nodding to Hermione, now, but keeping her eyes fixed on Theo's.

A slender arm slipped around her waist, and Theo once again came to her rescue, saving her from both her physical and emotional turmoil this evening (in the past hour alone). "Come on, Penny," he whispered, quickly delivering her to the comfort of the dark interior of the car. Away from all the flashes. "Do you," – he cleared his throat, looking extremely uncomfortable – "Want to talk about it?"

She shook her head.

"Ok," he nodded, bringing her into his embrace and holding her as she shook with uncontrollable sobs. God, she was a mess. First, Theo's arms were stiff and cold and unbending. Then, slowly, as if he was gaining confidence in her leaning into him, let the tension fall from his shoulders and let his fingers trace circular paths over her back. "It's fine, Penny. He'll be alright. He's probably just back at the Manor, pissed as hell, and sticking it to the King in the best way he knows how. He must have had a good reason for not showing up. He must have."

An unwelcome, dark and twisted thought stuck in the back of Hermione's mind as she was quietly ushered back to bed by Narcissa with the help of Winky.

_He must have had a good reason for not showing up._

Hermione wondered if Draco had figured it out before she did – before even Narcissa did – and had not come back because he didn't want her anymore. Because he didn't want _it_.

The smooth fabric of one of his old shirts was cool and calming against her searing skin, and Hermione lulled herself into a deep sleep trailing circular paths across her lower abdomen. A baby. A motherfucking _baby_. Who knew? The minute Narcissa had spelled it out for her – the combination of all of her symptoms and what they meant – it was as if some missing piece had clicked into place in her brain. It all made sense. Hermione Granger, as Penelope Clearwater, was pregnant with Draco Malfoy's child and was even more fucked than she was before.

Lovely.

* * *

The air was cold.

Nearly as cold as the metal instruments against her skin. Hermione closed her eyes and tried to put herself under the warm summer sun, but when she successfully let her mind wander to brighter, happier times, she found herself wrapped in Draco's arms beside a gardenia bush. She shuddered and bolted upright, causing the healer's gentle touch to suddenly clamp down on her inner thigh.

"There, there, dear," the older woman said. "I know it's scary, but it won't take long and then it'll all be over." She glanced over her shoulder to Narcissa leaning against the desk by the window, where snow flurries trickled down outside. "Mrs. Malfoy, why don't you hold Miss Clearwater's hand? I'm sure that will help alleviate her anxiety a bit."

"Oh, no, that's not necessary," Hermione began to protest, but Narcissa had already crossed the room and taken her right hand firmly between her own.

"Nonsense, child," tutted Narcissa. She peered down at Hermione and pursed her lips, "Don't look so surprised. Close your mouth, its unladylike." A sleek black eyebrow arched itself upward, daring Hermione to question her maternal nature further. She did not. She also drew her jaw back up from the floor and bit down on her lip as the cold instruments entered her.

Hermione winced, incapable of obscuring her discomfort.

As the cramps returned, Narcissa's hands tightened around her own, providing a rather helpful distraction from the mild pain if nothing else. "There," the healer said, pulling out the instruments and depositing them in a bowl full of cleansing alcohol. "All done, dear. You can sit up now and put your clothes back on."

Narcissa patted Hermione's hand twice firmly before crossing the room with the healer and engaging her in hushed conversation. Hermione didn't bother trying to strain her ear to hear what they were saying. It was out of her hands. More than that, Draco wasn't around still which was evidence enough that he wanted nothing to do with her or her possibly fertilized egg.

Just as she was pulling the loose fitted blouse and skirt – which were a _bit_ tight around her waist, but she told herself that could be just due to bloating and she could still be expecting a period – Narcissa and the healer had approached her with unreadable expressions. Hermione steeled herself for the worse. Whatever _that_ was.

"Miss Clearwater," began the healer. Her silvery gray hair glinting in the late afternoon light. "I have reason to believe, based on my examination, that you are with child." All of the air rushed out of Hermione's lungs and she barely caught the rest of what the woman said. "However, there are a few concerns I have regarding the health of you and your unborn child. So, I will be making home visits over the next few days to make sure everything is on track with both of you."

"I have already taken the liberty of putting the finances for the home visits on the family's health account, Penelope, and I will not stand to listen to any objections you may have. This is a matter of the utmost importance." Narcissa inserted, interrupting the buzzing thoughts whirring helplessly around Hermione's thick skull.

"Thank you," she stammered out, blinking through the haze of confounding emotions bubbling inside her. Daring to burst and send her into another spiral; one of anger or of distress, she wasn't sure. "What about - "

"Madam Pomfrey holds the highest level of doctor-patient confidentiality." Narcissa added with an added lifted eyebrow. Hermione nodded her understanding: Madam Pomfrey would not leak to the public who she was treating and what for.

Narcissa started to direct Madam Pomfrey out of the room, and Hermione followed quickly behind them, noting the craning necks from around darkened corridors as the three women made their way through the puzzling hallways of the enormous Manor. At the foyer, the healer bid them both goodbye and assured Hermione that she would be back the next evening for another evaluation.

"I do hope Mr. Malfoy is able to attend tomorrow's appointment," she said with a kind smile as she was escorted into the car in the driveway by Kreacher.

Back in the safety of the foyer – where the possibility of lurking camera lenses or nosy blonde reporters were slim to none – Theo had appeared with Harry on his heels, one looking arguably more uncomfortable than the other (much to Hermione's surprise, it was Theo who rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, fidgeting with his cuticles).

"So," he said, crossing his arms to stop his nervous habits. "Still no word from Draco?"

"No."

Narcissa pursed her lips and held out a hand to gesture the men, and Hermione, into the large sitting room where Draco typically gathered them for family meetings. Hermione chose a particularly plush looking velvet armchair and hugged a pillow to her stomach, avoiding eye contact from others in the room. Instead, she fixed her gaze on the stray silver hairs falling from Narcissa's intricate chignon.

In the loveseat sat Pansy and Daphne. Luckily, they looked like they had gotten over whatever argument or whatnot that had driven them to hysteric tears the night before, though they weren't nearly as handsy as they normally were. Daphne sat erect and stared blankly into the fireplace with her hands curls tightly in her lap, while Pansy crossed one knee over the other and rested her chin on her fist on the edge of the arm, her jaw clenched.

Theo nodded amicably to Greg and Vince as he came in, passing them to sit next to a somber-looking Blaise, forcing Harry to lean either against the arm of their sofa or sit in the velvet armchair opposite Hermione that sat unoccupied. She had rather hoped that he would leave her to her space, though evidently, he didn't share the same feeling.

Harry sat beside Hermione with a roguish grin across his face. His disheveled hair as unruly as her curls, and she felt her traitorous lips quirk into a semi-smile before she could compel them into submission.

Hermione noticed that Astoria was also missing.

"Now," Narcissa began, lighting a cigarette and taking a long inhale. "Draco is still missing. He hasn't been back to the Manor in nearly two days. He hasn't been sighted by anyone in the city, either, or his disappearance wouldn't be a hot commodity for those bloody vultures outside." She exhaled a puff of smoke, waiting until it cleared from her face to add, "Does anyone have anything they want to fucking say before I go on?"

All eyes fell on Hermione.

Narcissa cleared her throat. "No. Not her. That's none of your bloody business. Anyone else?" The sharpness in her voice was unmistakable. That was not a request, but one bloody hell of a demand. Leave her alone, or else. Did they dare to defy her and poke and prod Hermione for information – for why there was a healer to see her today? No. No, they did not dare. Hermione let out a shaky breath and tried to focus on the matter at hand.

She tried not to think about whether or not she was growing a little boy or a little girl, or whether or not it would get her monstrous curls and his slate eyes, or vice versa. She tried to think only of Draco's wellbeing, and whether or not he was truly missing or if he was simply avoiding her because of the baby. Did he even _know_ about it? Surely, he figured it out. Surely, that's why he left. Did he run off _with_ Astoria? Surely, not. She said so herself that she was on another errand. She wouldn't lie to Hermione, would she?

"- and it's not as if any of us necessarily wanted to be there, either." Theo pointed out, which Hermione only barely caught as she tuned back into the debate unfolding in the sitting room.

"Still," Blaise opposed, tipping a decanter into his glass to refill it. A moment later, the crystal decanter was swiped from the table by Pansy, and it continued to be passed back and forth between Daphne and her until the end of the meeting.

"Blaise is right," Narcissa interjected.

Theo scoffed, "You're just saying that because he's your favorite, other than Draco." Though, his features softened a bit when he added, "Does he have to be right though? Isn't there a chance he _isn't_ missing?"

"Unlikely," sniped Narcissa. She shook her head and took another sharp inhale from the cigarette. "I wouldn't want to have to show up to the bloody palace and accept that pretentious award or give that monotonous speech, either, but there's no way Draco would be thick enough to miss it. No matter how horrid the circumstance, he would have been there." She exhaled a ring of smoke, then dabbed out the half-lit bud into the crystal ashtray. "My son is missing. Of that, I'm certain."

"Well, fuck," Theo exclaimed with a sullen glare at the same time Blaise said, "What do we do now?" and also at the same minute Harry decided to turn to Hermione and whisper, "Did he say anything to you?"

She felt her head shake without her permission. Better off, anyway, as she didn't think it was something worth hiding from him. Ex-Order member or not, there was probably nothing to be gained or lost from that knowledge. The fact that she had none, that is. His face sunk, and she felt another wave of tears prick at the back of her eyes. Rather than let them fall, though, she fixed her expression pointedly on Blaise's intricate periwinkle suit.

"Right, very well then. Here's what we're going to do," said Narcissa with her hands on her hips. She aimed a long, manicured finger at Greg and Vincent, "You two are going to check in with our connections around the dock and trains. I want to know if he so much as breathed the same air as any type of transportation. His car is missing so, be on the lookout for that, all of you."

Then, her finger aimed itself at Pansy and Daphne, who looked slightly worse for wear than they did at the start of the hour. "You two need to sober up – I'll have Winky get on top of that right away – and then I want you both going around to the men on our payroll, especially the coppers, and see what they know. Be. Discreet." She hissed.

Next was Theo and Blaise. "You two check in with our higher-end connections, you know who I'm talking about." She paused, glancing askance at Harry before continuing, "While you're at it, pay a visit to Remus and see what his lot have been up to. I don't trust that they have nothing to do with this."

Theo cleared his throat, no-doubt feeling Harry's emerald eyes boring into him. "Shouldn't Potter come with us? I'm sure they'd be more willing to help if there was a friendly face present."

"No." She brandished her finger again, then snatched the decanter out of the women's hands and took a large gulp, not even bothering to fill a glass. "Absolutely not. For one, I wouldn't be quick to consider his face friendly among the Order at the moment." She sighed, rocking back on her heels. "I'll get in touch with my sister's. They have connections I can stand to exploit for whatever they decide the cost is, especially if it means I'll get my son back. I _swear_ if I find out this is the IRA's doing, I will burn down the whole bloody island if that's what it takes."

"Fuck," Theo scoffed, nudging Blaise beside him. "I'll burn it down just for shits and giggles. To hell with the lot of them, I say."

Finally, the bossy finger landed on Hermione. "You," she muttered, already shaking her head in disapproval. "You stay here." Her eyes settled on hers, causing the hair at the nape of her neck to stand up. "Don't you _dare_ do anything stupid."

"I'll watch her," Harry supplied, despite no one asking – nor demanding – what he planned to do.

The entire family filed out quickly – only Daphne and Pansy pausing with Winky in the kitchen to procure a green drink – and each left in their respective groups, taking a sleek, black car each. Hermione had to watch them pull out of the driveway and speed off into the hazy smog-filled sunset from one of the smaller sitting rooms on the third floor of the Manor. Harry interrupted her detrimental train of thoughts by gesturing awkwardly toward a chess table on the other side of the room.

Hermione sighed.

Approximately four moves from capturing his queen and another three from capturing his king and winning again, Hermione noticed something peculiar about Harry's strategy. Or, rather lack thereof. Per usual, Harry Potter was rushing into the game headfirst, and quickly dispersing his pawns across the checkered table. What was odd – what she noticed that she hadn't before – was that Harry had placed his stronger players (aside from the queen) in positions that should she care to, Hermione could easily seize.

It was this, the careless sacrifice of his rook and both of his knights, that sparked a web of thoughts in her brain. Her mind was whirling a thousand miles a minute; spinning out each thought and connecting them like the fine, silver thread of a spider's web. It kept going – spinning and connecting – until she was able to fully see the masterful web her mind had created.

"Holy shit," she murmured.

Hermione was so caught up fact-checking her revelation against anything she could grasp in her memories that she didn't notice Harry smirk and chuckle under his breath as he apprehended one of her bishops. It was the one angling toward his queen, taking her victory back by a few steps and forcing her to use one of her back-up plans of attack.

Still, it didn't matter.

It wasn't even a fly on her newly established web.

"Potter," Hermione said as monotonously as she could muster so as not to raise suspicion. His messy black hair flitted this way and that as he peered at her through his spectacles. His green eyes narrowed minuscule. "Would you mind if we paused this game? I have to fetch Dobby about – Err – some medication I'm supposed to take," – her eyes lifted to glance at the grandfather clock ticking over his shoulder – "by half-past ten tonight."

Harry sat back, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Oh, is that right? You wouldn't be looking for a reason to get out of a game you know that you're finally going to lose?" He taunted.

"No," she replied exasperated. Hermione stood up and beckoned toward the door. "Come with me if you don't believe me but I'll be back now in a minute." Summoning a look of impatience was not difficult, and believed it helped to drive the lie further home.

Seconds later, Hermione was panting as she reached the bottom of the staircase and flung the kitchen doors open, relieved to see that Dobby was – as she had sincerely hoped – without company in the kitchen.

"Miss Clearwater, ma'am," he greeted, fidgeting as he usually did around anyone that wasn't by blood a Malfoy.

"Dobby," Hermione exhaled in a rush of breath, tying the coat she'd nipped from the foyer on her way down and flashing him a brilliant smile. "I need your help with something."

"Miss?"

* * *

"Miss," Dobby squeaked from behind the wheel – which he gripped too tightly – "Where am I bringing you to, Miss? Master Malfoy would be very upset with Dobby if something were to happen to you. Very, _very_ upset. Not to mention, Mistress made it very clear to Dobby that you weren't allowed out of the Manor under _any_ circumstances."

"Listen, Dobby, I mean no personal offense, but I don't give a _fuck_ what Narcissa has to say about where I should and should not be. What do you think Draco would want, hm? For you to listen to her or to me?" Hermione hissed, growing more impatient with the fragility of her getaway driver. He was too sensitive for this line of work.

"Tell you what," she went on. "I'll make this easier for you." Hermione's hand aimed outside of the car and she let one of the bullets shatter the side mirror on the driver's side. She clicked the safety back on soundlessly, then gripped the revolver in her hand and aimed it at the back of Dobby's head. "Drive."

There was an audible gulp from him, followed by a stutter of, "Where am I bringing you, Miss?"

"I told you," huffed Hermione impatiently. "You're taking me _to_ Draco. I promise, Dobby, he won't be cross with you." Though, that statement seemed to make little difference to him the first ten times so, why should now be any different? Then, Hermione leaned forward over the front bench and pointed over his shoulder to loudly exclaim, "Left here, Dobby!"

A flash of white beside her in the backseat caught her eye, and Hermione bent down to take the paper between her hands. It was that morning's edition of the _Daily Prophet_.

Hermione frowned at the black-and-white grainy image of Draco. He wore his signature bachelor smug expression, and her heart lurched. The article did little to control the racing of her pulse, and by the time Hermione reached the end of the lengthy piece, she felt even more nauseous than she had before Dobby got behind the wheel for what he claimed was "the first time in so long Dobby can't even remember, Miss!"

They were in the heart of the city, only a block or two from the River Thames. Winding slowly through the narrow, cobblestone streets now, Hermione squinted into the heavy darkness for any sign of familiarity.

Again, her hand jerked up, "Up there! On the right. Alright, Dobby, listen to me very closely. _Stay in the car_." She swung the door open and tried to close it as quietly as she could. Who know who could be watching or listening? "Stay here. Whatever happens, whatever you hear or see, _do not get out of the car_. Do you understand?"

"Miss, I'm not sure that - "

Her nose scrunched, lips twisting downward with disapproval, mimicking that of Narcissa's favorite expression.

"Dobby."

"Yes, Miss. Dobby understands." He replied, hanging his head and regarding her with wide, scared eyes. Hermione fought to keep her jaw clenched, lest it go slack and allow her lips to tremble as they want to; for her tears swelling behind her eyes to dare to stream down her cheeks.

Hermione quickly ducked down an alley and made a sharp turn, placing herself on the street opposite where Dobby sat. Glancing over her shoulder, she caught the warm glow of the headlights. With one last deep breath, she stepped under the streetlamp and stopped at the third door on her left. The door was as she remembered it with its ordinary knocker, worn wood structure, and prime location in an inconspicuous street in one of the rougher areas of London proper.

_It was in a rough part of the city, practically some hole in the wall…_

If Neville Longbottom had been telling the truth, then Hermione should have an idea of what she was about to walk into. At least, as an enemy of the men on the other side of the door.

… _and there were tons of other men there. Not law enforcement._

No, they weren't law enforcement. Or, as Neville has riddled, they weren't adjacent enough to the law to abide by the very laws they swore to uphold and protect. Hermione held her breath, leaning in closely to the keyhole and immediately leapt back when she caught the dark shadow of a man passing by the door, demonized by the glint of silver tucked into his trousers.

Think, Hermione, _think_.

How was she supposed to get in undetected? She could probably talk her way inside, but it was unquestionably best if no one knew she was even there. _Think_. The building, like many of the other terraced ones on this side of the Thames, was built in the late 1850s meaning that there should be service door –

Yes!

Back in the alley, and skirting through a few piles of rubbish, Hermione found herself facing a large metal door that was originally built as a service entrance and now likely stood as an operating emergency exit. She racked her brain for where it would possibly deposit her once she emerged inside the building, but her mind came up blank. It was so long ago, now, that she couldn't recall the interior blueprint clearly enough to be of any use.

"Well," she muttered under her breath, resting her hand on the infinitesimally small bump, "I guess it's now or never, huh? Time to go save your daddy."

It was dark, damp and freezing cold. Hermione had to clamp down on her gloved hand to stop her teeth from chattering and giving her away. She crept through the dimly lit corridor and kept her eyes peeled for anyone or anything that could be around the corner. So far so good.

_They put me in a windowless room, kicked me around a bit._

If Neville had recalled his capture correctly, then there should be a room situated in the center of the room or against one of the walls shared with the other terraced buildings. At the end of the dark corridor, there was a door with a sizeable keyhole that she bent to peer through.

It was a relatively empty space. No rooms visible anywhere. Then, her heart leapt into her throat and she backed away as quickly and quietly as she could, feeling along the slick brick walls for anywhere she could duck into. She found one and had just positioned herself in its corner as the door opened and two men strode down the corridor with confidence despite the pitch blackness.

One of them sparked a cigarette as they passed by where she was hiding, and Hermione instinctively backed away from them. They didn't see her. She let out a massive exhale as the sound of the metal door thudded shut. In her haste to back away from their light, Hermione nearly lost her footing and fell further into the darkness. As she righted herself, she realized that she was standing on a stone staircase.

A windowless room…

"Interesting," she breathed. With a quick maneuver, Hermione unclicked the safety from the gun and began descending into the darkness.

Incredibly, her theory had been correct. The windowless room that Neville must have been referring to had been _beneath_ the old building. The light emanating from the room was blinding, and the door, unlock the others she'd come across so far, had an enormous windowpane above eye level. Hermione took a deep breath and stood on her tippy toes.

Her heart plummeted into her stomach.

Another wave of nausea came with a vengeance and, incapable of holding it back, she retched into the darkness behind her. Wiping the gross slickness across her face off with the back of her coat sleeve, Hermione mentally prepared herself to enter the room.

Not that she had a plan but clearly, she couldn't afford to wait any longer.

"Stop!" Hermione shouted as she barged in. "Don't move. Don't fucking move!"

The men stopped what they were about to do, lowering their weapons if only due to shock, not fear for what she would do to them if they didn't. Which was fair, she supposed. What reason did they really have to fear her?

There were four of them. Four men. All older than she was. Across from them, bound to a metal chair, was Draco. He looked terrible; his lip was busted and bleeding, one of his eyes was swollen shut and black, and across his arms and bare torso were bruises and cuts in various stages of healing that suggested _this_ was where Draco had been the past two days.

_Made me bleed. That was typical._

"Holy shit," she inhaled, tears pricking at the back of her eyes. "Draco. Draco, I'm here. It's me." Her fingers – the ones not gripping tightly to her revolver – brushed the silver hairs that fell into his eyes away from his forehead and placed a gentle kiss where they used to be. Flicking her tongue over her bottom lip, Hermione tasted copper.

In response, Draco's grey eyes flickered open and rested on her face. He tried to say something, but the only noise that escaped his bruised, bleeding lips was disgruntled and pained. Hermione tore her dilated eyes away from the sight of him – tortured and likely half-dead – and directed the fury that swelled and bubbled in her veins at the four men.

Three of them she didn't recognize, but then her eye caught on one of their palms, the one standing flank to the highest-ranking man, and her breath hitched. The gun in her hand felt heavy, and she was even more tempted to blindly fire it and worry about the consequences later.

_He was plain, short brown hair and pale skin – I may have left a bit of a scar on his left hand… with my teeth._

Neville was proving exceedingly helpful. Perhaps, it would be worth mentioning this to Draco and Narcissa if they ever made it out of here alive. Work out some kind of pardon that allowed Neville back into the country without a bounty over his head.

"You," she seethed.

The man smiled, displaying his yellowed teeth.

_He killed them – The other man, the new one, he shot them – Execution style._

Her eyes fell to the gun in his hand and she inched herself between the men and Draco. No way in hell was she letting them get away with this. Not if she had anything to say about it. The end of her revolver shifted from the pale man's hand to the inch of dark skin between the leader's eyebrows. He was the only man she had immediately recognized and knew by name, not simply by a ragged scar in the palm of his hand.

"Miss Penelope Clearwater, or should I say Miss Hermione Granger," came his low, baritone voice. "How delightful for you to finally join us. We were beginning to wonder when you would show up. Weren't we, Dawlish?"

The man to his immediate right nodded, flashing her another sickly smile. She grimaced.

 _There was a new man – I didn't trust him right away because he didn't fight in France – He started going on about the destruction of the Death Eaters – I got the feeling that he was commanding the Order,_ using them _, for his own agenda._

No wonder Harry had run from the Order as fast as he could and found solace among the Death Eaters. They may have been a lawless, violent gang but at least they had some rules of their own worth upholding. They were a business, first and foremost, and unless you threatened their way of life, they didn't bring trouble to your front door with a box full of bullets.

This man ticked all of the boxes that Harry had laid out for her.

He didn't fight in France, and as Neville had also pointed out for her, he had risen in rank faster and higher than any other man his age. While everyone else was fighting for their life in the trenches, he was busy climbing the ladder and establishing a name for himself. Harry didn't trust him because of that. Hermione didn't get that feeling when she first met him, but it wasn't as if she had ever found him inherently trustworthy, either.

Then, there was his – almost singular interest – in arresting Draco Malfoy and destroying his entire organization. At first, she thought the assignment was about justice and taking down a corrupt company. Little did she know, she had been put in place to provide him with the evidence he needed to destroy the Death Eaters as well.

Harry had the privilege of sitting in the meetings with other Marauder-related Order members. It's where he met this man for the first time and decided his control over the Order of the Phoenix was more than just for the sake of the good of the public. It was, again, for his specific agenda and his singular interest in destroying the Death Eaters.

Another means to an end.

They had all been fools. All along. They were all pawns in his game. This was the ultimate betrayal.

She had a feeling, when Harry had altered his chess strategy to expose his _king_ while sacrificing his stronger pieces. It was this, paired with her recollection of his and Neville's experiences that clued her in.

_Then, I realized where I recognized his face from…_

"Commander Kingsley Shacklebolt," Hermione exhaled shakily. "I should've known that you had something to do with this." Her head shook disbelievingly. "How could you? Have you no respect for the law?"

"Oh," Shacklebolt scoffed, arching a dark brow at her quizzically, "and I suppose you do?"

Hermione frowned. "Evidently more than you." Her eyes narrowed at his smug expression and realized that she was not only outnumbered four to one, but that she had given up the element of surprise and would have to devise a new plan of escape. That would require time, which was something she was desperately lacking by the hunger in their eyes. "So," she went on, opting to try and stall the inevitable. "I suppose this whole assignment was a ruse then. And I presume Fudge is in on this as well? The whole _secret organization_ within the police known as the Ministry doesn't even _exist_ , does it? None of your bloody Aurors are sanctioned."

Her chestnut eyes flitted across the four sets of dark eyes glaring at her.

"Hm," Shacklebolt grunted. "You were always too bright for your own good. I warned Fudge against choosing you for this role, of course, but he wouldn't listen. He swore you were all-too eager to prove yourself after the academy that you would pay off." His chuckle reverberated, bouncing off the white walls of the small room. "I look forward to telling him 'I told you so'."

"I might have done a good job in your eyes if you had _actually_ wanted what I had to offer." Hermione admitted, feeling small and inadequate in front of her old boss. "You didn't care about any information I gathered, did you? You didn't need it because you already _knew_. You knew everything Malfoy was up to because you had the Order wrapped around your finger."

He grinned. "Have," he corrected. "I still have them wrapped around my finger. Other than the disheveled boy – we're better off without his defiance seeping into their weaker minds though, good riddance – they are all still very much in debt and in awe of their leader."

"Unbelievable," she said. "How dare you? What the point of sending me deep undercover, then? Why bother? You didn't need any of the intel I gathered. You didn't _once_ check in on me to see if I was even alive in five years. _Five_. _Years_. Fuck you," spat Hermione.

"Your time among the savages has wrecked you, Miss Granger." Dawlish input, smirking at her distraught over being abandoned by the men – the cause – she had once trusted and valued more than her own life.

No longer.

She was a Death Eater now, through and through. Officially or not, her heart and mind and body belonged to them and to Draco. "They aren't the savages, you are." She hissed, sliding her finger along the trigger and readying herself for the gunfire that was surely to come. "They valued me. Trusted me. Took care of me. Which is a hell of a lot more than I can say for any of you."

"They don't even know _who you really are._ " He taunted. "How can you possibly think that they trust you and value you when you've been lying to them this entire time? Miss Granger, I regret to inform you that they will not take too kindly to that if you think they will welcome you back with open arms. That is, of course, presuming you will survive this little encounter."

Hermione grimaced. "I'd rather take my chances with them, then even consider rejoining the ranks and serving alongside _you._ "

"You would rather align yourself with them?" Shacklebolt questioned. The dark beads of his eyes were cold and menacing, matching the expression painted across the rest of his face. "With _him_?"

"Yes." Hermione replied without hesitating.

Shacklebolt sighed so long it transformed into a sinister laugh. "I don't see why I bothered to ask. That dastard piece of gold on your finger speaks volumes for where your current allegiance lies." His dark eyes dropped deliberately to the finger in question and Hermione caught herself doing the same.

The gold of Draco's signet ring glinted in the harsh light as it wrapped around the trigger of the gun.

"Why now?" Hermione pressed, intent on distracting him further. She hadn't yet finalized an escape plan. All she knew was that she only had five bullets left (the one she'd shot earlier reminding her how cruel cosmic karma could be). "You could have kidnapped him, tortured him and killed him, any time over the past few years and possibly even before then. Why did you wait so long to do it, hm? Why now?"

Shacklebolt shrugged.

"It was the opportune moment." He said.

Hermione, being as brilliant as everyone claimed her to be, understood what he meant by this. Draco must have appeared rattled and furious when he sped away from the Manor after their row to meet with Mr. Bagman. He would have been unaccompanied for one of the few seldom times in his life. There would have been no media following his whereabouts as it was late in the evening a few days prior to Christmas, and it was for an ordinary, boring scheduled meeting.

Add in the fact that his emotions – and anything they might have gotten out of him by brute force – and Shacklebolt could have easily held him for a few days without raising too much suspicion. Or, at least, enough to give himself a few hours head start, making everyone else run on a wild goose chase looking for him.

"You understand, Miss Granger, that I can't let you go. You've been compromised and must be disposed of with Malfoy." His gun, much more intimidating than hers, was aimed at her. "Looks like you will be taking your chances with him as you so dreadfully desired. Any last words?"

Hermione took a deep breath.

Her own gun was raised, leveled with his traitorous face.

She could feel her blood running –

Pounding in her ears.

She could feel butterflies –

Reminding her who she was fighting for; both of them.

Hermione could swear the sky was falling.

She could do this; she'd done it before.

All she had to do was –

Just keep breathing.

Then, there was a loud bang. It echoed throughout the small room, bouncing off the thick, white walls and causing a ringing in her ear. She blinked, realizing that her left side hurt. The pain setting her nerves on fire. Before her vision swarmed and blackness enveloped her, the last thing she saw was a sea of red spreading out around her.

* * *

 **A/N -** This chapter's title comes from Iggy Azalea's song _Started_ from the lines _I started from the bottom and now I'm rich / I got in my bag and I ain't look back since / I started to say sorry, but fuck that shit_ xx


	10. Turned Me to a Savage

**A/N -** While this story is mostly told from Hermione's POV, this chapter will _not_ be following that format... enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 10: Turned Me to a Savage**

* * *

_24 December 1924_

For all that Draco believed he was the brains of the Death Eaters – the one who _thinks_ – he was beginning to realize he didn't have any brains at all. If he did have any, then he wouldn't feel utterly shocked and betrayed to discover who Penelope Clearwater is. She is nothing; not the love of his life, the voice of reason among a den of snakes, nor the one person he came to trust above all others.

Unquestionably, irrevocably, and foolishly.

There was a fire in his veins as the woman standing between him and several loaded guns answered to _Miss Hermione Granger_. It became clear that was her true identity and Penny was a facade. Penny was the woman on his arm and the light at the end of a dark and treacherous tunnel. Miss Hermione Granger was a lie and the burning star to which he, with blind adoration, flew too close to.

Miss Hermione Granger was, plainly put, a traitor.

Draco had just about convinced himself that if they made it out of here alive, then he would kill her himself. But then the tension in the room reached its peak and all hell broke loose. Through one black eye and one teary eye, he watched the violence unfold. It began, like most fallouts in his line of work, with the deafening boom of a gun being fired; a badass gun meant to blow Draco's head clean off.

Instead of ripping through Draco, however, it tore itself through Penny's – _Hermione's_ – shoulder.

She fell in slow-motion; her small frame colliding with the cement floor and folding so unkindly it made Draco's heart stop. Her blood flooded from the massive wound, pooling around her body. It was in that moment he feared he would truly lose her, and every horrible fate he wished for her weighed heavily on his heart. Then, her breath hitched, her eyes met his, and hatred boiled in his blood once more.

Draco screamed for her to watch out; to get the bloody gun and _shoot them_. All that came out were strangled cries, scratching at his bruised throat. His gaze lifted from her small fists closing around the revolver to the dark abyss that was Commander Shacklebolt's eyes. The fucking scoundrel. A pathetic excuse of a man.

The end of his gun – with its enormous fucking bullet ready to go – was aimed at Draco's head again. Miraculously, when it went off, the bullet soared over his head and lodged itself in the wall, leaving a crater and simultaneously sparking a belief in God that Draco thought had been left in the trenches. Shacklebolt was on the floor; a gaping hole between his eyes.

Instinctively, Draco's widened gaze slid over to Penny – _Hermione_. She, however, looked just as shocked as he felt as they both stared at Shacklebolt's unmoving body. Her head whipped around at the same time that his lifted up.

Theo stood before them with a smug grin displayed across his face.

"Now, that's what I call good timing." He trilled, sending a wink their way before sobering up slightly and moving to free Draco from his binds. Over Theo's shoulder, Draco could make out Blaise unleashing the likes of a Tommy gun on the other men. His battle cry was shrill and definitely needed work. "He sounds like a fucking hawk. An injured, depressed, dying one." Theo mocked, making eye contact with Draco. Good to know that their bond was flourishing as ever. "Oi!" He yelled, finished with Draco and kneeling to survey Hermione. "Blaise, will you shut the fuck up! We have to get a move on before the whole fucking cavalry upstairs decides to come down here!"

"You never let me have any fun," grumbled Blaise as he slung the enormous submachine gun across his back. "Come on, Draco," he grunted. Draco leaned heavily on his friend, grateful for the support as they climbed the dark stairs. At the very top of the staircase stood Greg and Vince, each with their own Tommy gun glued to their hands. "Anything?" Blaise asked, pausing before rounding the corner.

"No," replied Greg. In the darkness, Draco could only barely make out him nodding further into the corridor behind them. "Not a single peep. Did you two even have to use that thing?"

Blaise scoffed, "Of course we fucking did. You didn't hear it?" The other two shook their heads, looking dubiously at each other. Blaise whistled, shaking his head in disbelief. "Fuck, they had you in a bloody soundproof room, Draco." His dark eyes flitted across Draco's face, and he fought the urge to scowl at the man's concern over his health. He wasn't one for a lot of fuss. "Right, well, let's get a bloody move on."

"Wait," Draco rasped. "We can't leave them."

"We're not," Blaise assured him. "Theo is right behind us, and he's got Penny, so - "

_Penny._

Draco's fist shot out, clutching onto the collar of Blaise's shirt. He took a deep breath, settling his pulse. "No. Not them." He tapped the gun poking out behind his friend's ear. "We can't leave any witnesses here. We can't afford to have them poking around. Still in operation." Draco tightened his grip. "They're fucking coppers – No, they're worse than fucking coppers."

"You want us to level this place, then?"

Draco nodded.

"There's something else."

He explained his idea to Blaise and sent him off to go retrieve the stolen guns hidden beneath Theo's pub. "Pull as many lads from the streets as it takes. We need to do this quickly and quietly. Can't have the bloody IRA onto us." Blaise nodded and took off, leaving Draco to lean against the cold brick wall. He clapped a bloodied hand on first Greg, then Vince's, shoulder. "Alright lads," he smirked. "Light 'em up."

"You got it boss," replied Vince with a sly grin.

* * *

Back at the Manor, Draco nodded to Greg and Vince as he struggled to step out of the car and limp into the foyer. "Well done, boys," he said. "Let's see if we can dig you up some warmed whiskey and dark chocolate, eh?" Just as Draco saw he earned a genuine smile from both of them, he turned his attention toward the chaos behind the kitchen door.

"What the _fuck_?"

"It's about time you bloody arrived," his mother quipped, shooting daggers at him. "Where the _hell_ have you been? You know what, never mind that right now, just come here and help hold her down." Mother's pale eyes returned to the task at hand, and she went on barking out orders at everyone else. Draco could only stare.

 _Miss Hermione Granger_ was bleeding all over the kitchen island.

" _Draco_ ," his mother hissed. She took his chin between her iron-clad grip and surveyed his face. Her own expression was stoic, but Draco recognized the twinkle in his mother's eyes. It spoke volumes when she didn't; she was toeing the line of murder. "Fuck them," she swore under her breath. She released him so forcefully his spine collided with the cabinets behind him. "Sit." He sat; Draco knew better than disobey her when her mood had gone this sideways.

Pansy's cool touch was on him in seconds; her manicured hands wetting a cloth and dabbing at the cuts across his face and hands. When prompted, he removed his shirt and let her pour alcohol across the gashes there. As her hands swept across healing bruises, Draco bit the inside of his cheek to refrain from showing just how sensitive the marks were.

"I'm going to go get some more ice," Pansy murmured to no one in particular.

Daphne's head immediately snapped up, the color completely drained from her face, to chime in with, "I'll help you, Pans,"

Narcissa, however, was quick to cut in. Her glare rested on Daphne with added vehemence, "No."

Her tone was far more dangerous than Draco could ever recall. He was injured, but the bruises, cuts, and probably cracked ribs – making each breath he took excruciating – were not worth stressing about; his body would heal itself. So, what was Mother –

"Penny is _dying._ I need all hands on deck."

Draco's blood boiled.

"Her name isn't Penny," he seethed, loud enough to ensure that everyone in the kitchen heard him. His eyes met Theo's across the room; the pale blue glinting with mischief. "I don't even know why you're bothering with all of this," he went on. "She's a liar and a traitor."

"What the fuck are you on about?" Mother snapped.

He nodded to Theo, "If you don't believe me, ask him. He probably heard every word out of her vile mouth, just as I did. Didn't you, Nott?" The other man looked unfazed, as if he had predicted this reaction and prepared for it mentally. Draco became increasingly more upset as Theo shrugged and nodded. "See, Mother? Your precious little princess doesn't _exist_."

"Draco, pull your head out of your ass and - "

" _No, Mother!_ "

His bruised fist slammed into the counter. It ached, pulsing furiously as he rose and joined the others around the kitchen island, eying the half-dead woman splayed across it. The only sign that she was still alive was the faint wheezing of her lungs grasping for air; the faintest rise and fall of her chest, covered in dark, deoxygenated blood.

"Her name is Miss Hermione Granger, and she was working as an uncover agent for the London police for the past five years." Draco exhaled in a rush. "Five fucking years! Do you recall when the first came into the Manor _looking for a job_? That was five bloody years ago." His glare slid to Theo, standing next to his mother. "Do you remember when we first ran into her? What if that was her _intention_ , hm?" He shook his head, grimacing at Hermione's pale face inches away from his hands; her blood now staining them.

"That doesn't matter," Narcissa replied nonchalantly.

" _Doesn't matter?_ " He hissed. "Are you fucking kidding me? What's one of the most fundamental rules of the Death Eaters, Mother? We don't fucking lie to each other."

She rolled her eyes. "Draco, stop being so fucking dramatic. Protection of our family is _the_ most fundamental rule."

"She's not fucking family!" He screamed, growing angrier every moment his mother continued to defy him – as the leader of the Death Eaters – and defend Hermione. The traitor. The love of his life. He shook his head, clearing the muddle of thoughts, and directed his attention to Theo. "Back me up here, Nott. She doesn't belong here; never did."

Theo sighed.

"Sorry, mate. I'm with Narcissa on this one." His pale eyes fell on Potter, standing eerily quiet on Draco's righthand side. Potter chose that moment of tense silence to mouth something to Theo. Draco saw his hand drop from around Hermione's wrist and grimace. "Narcissa," Theo said. "We have to do something _._ Her pulse is practically gone."

She stared at Draco.

"I don't give a flying fuck what you say right now. You're hurting because she lied, yes, but that does not mean you have the right to sign her death sentence, my son. You're outnumbered. She deserves to live and defend herself, if nothing else." Her words stung, and Draco knew there was nothing else to say.

Theo instantly shoved his long, deft fingers into the gaping hole in Hermione's shoulder. He was looking for the bullet, and Draco's stomach lurched. Against his better judgment, he could not sit back and do nothing. So, when Potter began handing him cloths, he sighed and applied pressure around Theo's hand in the wound.

They worked diligently, repairing the wound that tore Hermione's shoulder apart. The damage an unhelpful reminder that the bullet had been intended for Draco's skull. When Theo finally pulled the bastard out of her, he dropped it in an empty tin with a clang. There was a unanimous inhalation among everyone in the room before Daphne cleared her throat and said, "I'll sew her up."

"What?"

Her pretty eyes landed on Draco, offering him a sidelong grin. "I know you don't want to do it, and other than you, I have the nimblest hands. The steadiest, too, I reckon." She swallowed forcefully, wiped her hands on her silk skirt and crossed the room. Daphne sat, poised and proper, on a wooden stool as she pressed a needle and wire thread through Hermione.

"Theodore," murmured Narcissa with a hint of despair. "I think it should be you who does the next bit – when Daphne's finished." She nodded to the quick work the young woman was making of the others mangled skin.

Theo nodded, avoiding Draco's eye.

"What is it?" He pressed, eyes scanning the room for an answer. "What's the next part. Mother?" Draco glared, "Are you going to bloody tell me or am I going to have to - " His threat was halted by a sharp pain in his side; he clutched his ribs and braced himself against the counter.

"You must have fractured a rib – possibly even broken it – with all of this fuss." His mother replied with a sigh. "I told you to sit, did I not?" He met her arched brow with one of his own.

Pansy was at his side again, pulling him away from Hermione with a strength he hadn't known she possessed. He wasn't sure why he was fighting her. After all, he hadn't even wanted to _be_ at Hermione's side earlier. Then, her eyelashes fluttered, and she began to murmur sweet sounds; his name coming from her blue lips like that of a prayer.

"Let go of me," he said, wrestling with Pansy and, now, Greg and Vince. "Let go! I said fucking _let go_." As he struggled against their grip, he watched as Narcissa took Daphne under her arm, Harry rested a hand on Theo's back, and Theo brace himself beside Hermione's head. "What are you doing?" He gasped. "Don't touch her. Don't touch her! Theo… _Theo!_ "

There was a sickening crack.

Draco's entire world fell apart.

He shoved Greg and Vince away with no mercy. Pansy was easier to dispel, still. Then, he was at Hermione's side, angling to see what Theo had done. He would kill him. He would –

"You're so dramatic," muttered Theo with a shake of his head. Hermione wasn't conscious anymore, but she was very much still alive. Draco sighed a breath of relief and stared at the cloth wrapped around her arm and neck. "It's a sling." Theo supplied. "Her bones needed realigning after the fall she took. Broke a few by the looks of it. Quite nasty breaks, too." His blue eyes slid from his handiwork to Draco's stern expression. He elbowed him as a smirk stretched across his lips, "I thought you didn't care what happened to her."

"Shut the fuck up, Nott," he sighed, backing away.

She was out of the dark, it seemed, and so was he. A miracle, indeed. But then, as fate would have it, everything was about to change.

"Err, Mrs. Malfoy?" Harry Potter stammered.

"What is it, Potter?" Narcissa snapped.

Potter chewed on his bottom lip, eyes flickering nervously back and forth Hermione's head and legs. He swallowed and pointed in the graceless manner Draco had come to expect from him. "Is that… normal?"

"Potter," she quipped rudely, head snapping up to see what he was gesturing to, "is what norm…" Her words faded. The pale hand that had been absently stroking Hermione's unruly curls stopped, and Draco's attention immediately refocused on what was happening. His relief instantly shattered when he saw the pool of blood between her legs.

"What – But she wasn't – It was only her shoulder – How the bloody hell?" Draco blinked; unsure what Mother had gone a sickly shade for, he felt another wave of anger rise inside him. "What's going on?" He roared, spinning to confront his mother. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Get him out of the room."

"No," he bellowed, stepping away from the arms that dared to try and hold him. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm not _fucking_ leaving her!"

Mother pursed her lips. "It's about bloody time you came to your senses." She shook her head, muttering, "For fuck's sake. Her attention, however, was quickly diverted from her son to the woman continuing to bleed profusely onto the kitchen floor no matter how much amateur medical attention she received.

"Narcissa," wailed Pansy with bulging eyes. She stood at the door with Dobby poking his head in beside her. "The healer is here," she went on, her voice high-pitched and panicky. "Madam Pomfrey?"

"Fuck," swore Narcissa, surveying the scene before her.

Except, Draco recognized the name of the healer. "Madam Pomfrey isn't just a healer," he said in a low tone. His eyes, dark and full of storms, fell instantly on his mother's. She would be the only person in the room to know the truth of the woman at their door. "What the _fuck_ is a midwife doing here?"

Her gaze faltered, and she looked past him to Pansy, giving her a firm nod of approval. The young woman dashed out with Dobby to retrieve the midwife.

Draco's head shot up. His mind swiftly connecting the dots and sending his heart rate through the roof. It thudded murderously in his chest, threatening to break his ribcage further from its repetitive pounding. "No," he gasped.

"Yes."

A million thoughts swarmed through Draco's head, rendering him mute and immobile. The midwife, Madam Pomfrey, came into the room and screeched bloody murder; her shrill tone ricocheted off the high ceilings. Narcissa was on top of her instantly, and Greg and Vince took the healer's arms to steady her.

"Madam Pomfrey," snapped Narcissa, bringing the woman's dilated eyes to focus on her face with a snap of her fingers. "This woman needs you or she is going to die. Do you hear me? You swore an oath, Madam, and I expect you to uphold it." There was a dangerous air of _or else_ in his mother's wording that seemed to get through to the elder woman.

She nodded obediently, then brushed off the shock of Hermione and got right to work.

It was clear that Madam Pomfrey was immensely skilled. She worked diligently, commanding everyone in the room to assist her with various tasks. Pansy and Daphne were instructed to provide hot water and towels at timed intervals. Greg and Vince were responsible for imitating stirrups. Narcissa was to watch over Hermione's head and make sure she stayed unconscious through the worst of the procedure.

Which left Theo and Potter to hold Draco down and make sure he didn't do anything stupid.

Not that he planned to.

All he was capable of doing was hold back the flood threatening to flow from his eyes, bite down on his lip to prevent the cries from tearing them apart, and take quick, painful breaths from the sidelines. The longer Madam Pomfrey worked on Hermione, the more he was struggling to hold his tongue. "Please save her," he murmured. "I can't lose her. Save her – above all else. Please save her. I can't lose her…"

Over and over again, like a sick prayer.

"There," Madam Pomfrey announced, wiping the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. "She's stable," the midwife exhaled.

"And the baby?" Draco asked, eyes flickering between Hermione's pale complexion and the buckets of soiled towels on the floor.

"Fine," she ruled matter-of-factly. "For now. However, she and the fetus will need insurmountable attention over the next few days and weeks. Neither of them is out of the woods yet. If I can recommend a hospital by the - "

"No."

Draco shook his head. He shoved the agony of moving to the back of his mind and tried to focus only on the matter at hand. He channeled his inner mob boss mentality – the very one he learned from his father before they went off to war – and buttoned the oxford Pansy had brought for him. It stuck to his sweat- and salve-soaked torso, clinging to his aching muscles.

"No," he repeated. Draco stopped right in front of the midwife, towering over her and fixing her with his most menacing glare. "No hospitals. No doctors. It's bad enough my mother opted to employ you… _again_ ," he added glancing askance to where his mother stood with her arms crossed. " _You_ will be the one to stay and monitor her and the child's wellbeing, Madam Pomfrey."

"Mr. Malfoy," the elder woman began, stammering, "I couldn't possibly. I have – I have other patients and - "

"Not anymore." He said, cutting her off with a single, silver arched eyebrow. "That woman and _my child_ are your only concern now." He paused, surveying the hesitation in the wrinkles across her forehead. "You have two grandchildren don't you, Madam Pomfrey?"

"Y – Yes, Mr. Malfoy," she muttered.

He cleared his throat, beckoning Greg and Vince to stand behind him with a hidden gesture. "One boy and one girl, correct?" The elder woman nodded. "My good friend, Mr. Montague," – he wasn't there at the moment (away with his family) but she didn't need to know that – "has recently decided he is going to take over for our late friend Mr. Flint. Meaning that he will run the largest home for orphaned children in London."

Draco paused emphatically. "I would hate to see your grandchildren among his newest pupils, but I'm sure we would be able to find room for them should the situation arise. Don't worry, Madam Pomfrey," he said with a sickly-sweet smile. "We take good care of the children, and even hire most of the young boys in our various companies."

She gulped.

"That won't be the case, though, will it Madam Pomfrey?" He emphasized, gesturing to Narcissa and Hermione. "Shall I see if Mother can find a room for you in the Manor for the next few weeks?"

"I – I'm sure that's not necessary. I can come back every - "

"Nonsense," stated Draco. "You said so yourself, the woman and the child need constant supervision and care. I will see to it that she receives the former if you can guarantee me the latter." He arched a brow purposefully, rendering a meek nod from the midwife.

"She needs rest." Ruled Madam Pomfrey with one last glance over her shoulder as Narcissa lead her out of the kitchen. It resembled more of an emergency tent on the frontlines by now, to be honest. Draco sighed, sparing Hermione a glance himself before acquiescing to the healer.

"You need rest too, mate," whispered Theo, grabbing Draco by the elbow and holding him back momentarily as Potter beckoned the remaining others over to help move Hermione. Draco could not take his eyes off of her. He didn't respond to Theo, and simply shrugged out of his grasp to follow her out of the room.

It was near impossible to get her up the stairs safely so, they settled on putting her in a room on the main floor overlooking the back gardens. Draco pulled in an armchair from the sitting room opposite, grimacing at its black interior; he always hated that particular room. It had been his father's office.

He fought sleep as the sun rose over the gardenia bushes, sinking into the plush armchair he placed beside the low bed. Her hands were cold, wrapped between his own, but he held them anyway. Draco brushed his lips against her fingertips and murmured, "Merry Christmas," as he succumbed to subconsciousness.

* * *

The trenches, the mud slick between his fingers, flooded his veins with panic. He was alone. In the dark. Surrounded by Allied Powers. Draco took a deep breath, steadying his nerves, then crept higher up along the side of the mountainous terrain. The Italian base was at the top, and the only way his company was going to make it past them was to blow up the entire side of the mountain. For weeks, they tried to push past, but the mafia bastards were smarter than he predicted.

This was the only way Draco saw his men surviving this battle.

It was simple: he would take out as many men as he could with his rifle, then ignite a makeshift bomb to destroy the rest. In the dead of the night, a lone man was capable of pulling it off.

That was, until, Harry fucking Potter ruined everything.

Draco woke with a scream, bolting upright and surveying the room with calculated grey eyes. He sighed, falling back against the velvet cushions to pinch the bridge of his nose. The light streaming in the room informed Draco that he'd only been asleep for a few hours. Most likely, the rest of the house would still be fast asleep. Especially, after the night the all had. Christmas Day or not, no one dared to rouse Blaise from his beauty sleep; waking a slumbering bear would be less dangerous. Penny was the same way, he mused, then immediately corrected himself.

 _Miss Hermione Granger_.

It was still a shock. His body gravitated toward her; almost as if it was subconscious. But his mind pulled away, struggling to reason with his emotions that this wasn't healthy for him. _She_ wasn't healthy for him. The internal turmoil raging in Draco's mind was relentless. He was, in fact, so lost in thought that he hadn't noticed Theo appear in the room followed by Madam Pomfrey.

The latter assumed a position on the opposite side of Hermione to examine her wellbeing, while the former folded his arms over his chest in front of Draco. "Blaise only just stumbled upstairs," he noted, arching a dark brow. "Where has he been all night?"

"Tying some loose ends," replied Draco with a wave of his hand. "Nott," he added. "We need to discuss the retaliation."

"Which retaliation would that be exactly?"

He cleared his throat, reaching into Theo's pockets for the pack of cigarettes he knew to be there. They both lit one despite the disapproving glare Madam Pomfrey sent their way. After a moment of consideration, Draco motioned for Theo to follow him in standing by the window, cracking it open. He arched a pointed brow at the midwife before continuing to take a long drag.

"The one against fucking Finnigan and his smart mouth sidekick." Draco said, finally answering the question.

"Ah," mused Theo, nodding along. He inhaled a quick drag, then exhaled a haze of smoke. The two of them watched it disperse into the crisp winter air; the same, bloodcurdling memory haunting them. Theo waited until the healer left the room to speak up, "When will this retaliation be exactly?"

Draco balanced the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. "Today."

A cough erupted from Theo, and Draco absentmindedly whacked the back of his friend. "Are you bloody kidding me?" He challenged. His pale eyes narrowed at Draco. "We only just recovered, Draco!" He gestured wildly to Hermione to further his argument. Draco hated to admit it, but it was a valid point. "There's no way we'll stand a chance if we go tonight. You're not thinking clearly."

He shook his head, flicking the end of the cigarette into the bin.

"I _am_ thinking clearly." Draco countered. "Finnigan is reckless. He showed up at your pub and opened fire. He didn't even blink – didn't stop for one bloody second to think about the repercussions. Do you seriously think he'll sit in the shadows much longer, Theo?" He ran his hand through his hair, fighting a grimace as his ribs expanded. "If we seek vengeance tonight, he won't expect it. I'm sure by now he's been well-informed that I'm missing – and I _don't_ want the papers to know any different."

Theo opened his mouth, but Draco cut him off.

"It's better that way." He ruled, tapping his friend's shoulder. "You know I'm right. It's best that the public mourns my absence or whatever the fuck they're doing. I'm presume they're mourning, yes?" Draco pressed. Theo rolled his eyes but nodded. "Lovely."

"So, tonight?"

"Yes."

"Any particular tactic?" Theo groaned.

Draco thought about it. He knew little of the Irish men who invaded his city and killed his brethren, wounding two others in the process. Yet, he knew enough about them to come up with a plan he was certain would ensure they – and all of their fucking IRA men back home – never threatened the Death Eaters again.

Draco met Theo's pale blue eyes with a smirk, "Do you remember the Battle of Marseilles?"

"God, how could I forget?" Theo scoffed. Draco's raised eyebrows clued him in. "Oh, _fuck_ no." He paced the room, muttering obscenities and half-formed sentences under his breath. Draco took the opportunity to return to his seat and close his eyes for several minutes. Eventually, as he predicted, Theo came around. "Fine. Fucking, fine!" Draco beamed.

"Wait until Sleeping Beauty is awake," he suggested; a smug expression creeping across his face. "You'll need his guns and all the able-bodied men we can spare."

Theo sighed, "I take it that means you won't be joining us, then?" Draco shook his head as way of reply. "I guess I can't blame you. I wouldn't leave this room either if that was fucking Potter sat there, barely breathing." He took a deep breath of his own, settling his icy gaze on Draco with a stern expression. "Care to talk about it?"

"No."

"Right, of course." Theo mocked, rolling his eyes again and folding his long limbs over one another as he perched at the end of the bed. "How unquestionably idiotic of me to presume you would want to open up to your lifelong best mate about a deeply disturbing and tormenting topic. My apologies,"

"Apology accepted," muttered Draco.

Theo stood, shaking his head. "You're a prat," he stated, moving toward the door. "I'll be back later with an update of how it all goes." He paused. "When you say Marseilles… I gather you want bloody _Commander Shacklebolt_ to be the sheep?"

"Goat," he corrected. "Yes."

Theo's eyes shifted back and forth, considering the maneuver. Finally, he settled on a decision with a cocky grin and a low whistle. "That could work." Draco shrugged smugly as if to say, _I know_ and _That's why I'm bloody in charge_. Then, Theo tossed a, "Sod off," over his shoulder and disappeared down the hall.

* * *

Draco refused dinner. However, Mother refused to _let_ Draco refuse dinner and so, Dobby stood patiently in the doorway, mumbling, "Master Malfoy, sir?" He was holding an elaborate tray stacked with a full Christmas feast complete with trifle and all. Draco sighed, and waved the feeble staff member inside.

"Cheers, Dobby," he said, pressing his bruised lips into a thin line vaguely resembling that of a smile.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy, sir. It's Dobby's pleasure to serve you, sir!"

He tilted his head, watching the tray balance precariously on the side table. Draco was not hungry. Most likely, this magnificent feast would go as untouched as Hermione's broth and water would go. She had yet to wake up, though Draco's constant eye on her rising and falling chest informed she was still capable of doing so.

"Dobby," he called out, earning a polite – if insurmountably quick – response asking what services he required. "Run across the hall and fetch me some parchment, pen and ink from my father's study, will you?"

There was a loud commotion, followed by a high-pitched yelp.

Draco bolted to the black-furnished room and helped Dobby to his feet. His muscles were sore and strained, but he lifted the bookshelf and fallen books off of Dobby, then clapped him on his back. "You alright?"

"Y – Yes, sir. Dobby is so, _so_ sorry, sir! Dobby never meant to ruin Master Malfoy's office – Oh! – _Former_ Master Malfoy's office!" He wailed, eyes bulging with despair.

Afraid Dobby would begin whacking himself over the head with one of the fallen lamps, Draco immediately blocked it from his view and assured him that there was no need to fuss about the room. In truth, Draco hated it. He picked up some loose writing materials and escorted Dobby out of the room with him, offering the opportunity for the room to be demolished once and for all.

"Young Master Malfoy is so kind," Dobby mused with a weak smile. "So generous and forgiving and - "

"That's enough, Dobby." Draco said, cutting off his rambling. "Get Kreacher to help you with the room. If Mother already has him working on a task," he added as an afterthought, "then recruit Winky."

"Yes, sir. Right away, sir."

Draco shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. Then, he settled back into the familiar armchair and propped a spare book (he'd been reading them aloud to Hermione when no one was watching) on his lap. He used the hard cover as a makeshift desk as he drafted a letter to Chief Inspector Slughorn. He didn't trust Scabior any longer than he could throw the man. Slughorn, at the very least, was predictable, making him also a primary target for manipulation. The second later Draco wrote was addressed to Mr. Ludo Bagman.

Neither would, of course, be posted until the end of the week; when Draco planned on remerging in the public eye to implement his new plan of action to further accumulate power in London.

"Ah, perfect timing Dobby," he smiled faintly, tapping the finished script on the mantle of the fireplace he loomed over. "Don't send it until Friday, understood? That's three days time." With a flick of his wrist, Draco dismissed his closest member of staff. He returned to staring into the hearth for a full, uninterrupted minute before realizing that Dobby remained in the doorway. "What is it, Dobby?" He sighed.

"Master," he began meekly. "Dobby has found something peculiar. Dobby wasn't looking for it – honest! It sort of fell into Dobby's hands, sir."

"What did?" Draco pressed impatiently. "What is it? Hand it over." He took the crumpled parchment from Dobby's outstretched hand and eyed it. Skeptically, he unraveled the document. Draco wasn't entirely sure what he expected to find (half-mad writings left by his father, perhaps? Or, a hit-list his mother had uncharacteristically opted to leave on paper?). He blinked. Met Dobby's dilated eyes, then blinked again. "Where did you find this?"

"In the former Master's study, sir. Among the disheveled books and things, sir. Dobby didn't write, Dobby swears! Dobby doesn't even know _how_ to write Mr. Malfoy, sir, and even if Dobby _did_ know - "

"That's enough. I know you are not responsible for this." He caught a lump in the back of his throat, then crossed the room to drown it with whiskey. "Leave me, Dobby. I know who did this, and I will see to it accordingly."

There was a mumble of a "Yes, Master Malfoy, sir," or something like it before the heavy oak door slammed shut. Draco tossed back a second, then a third glass full of scorching whiskey before he finally let his eyes fall on Hermione.

"How did I not see it earlier, hm?"

"Because," a voice trilled from behind. "The only thing to blind a man as clever as you are, Draco, is love."

He turned to see none other than Astoria, a former love of his own, leaning against the open frame. She was quieter than a mouse; it was no wonder his mother preferred to recruit Astoria for her schemes and plots. She was petite, barely standing above five feet, but she commanded the space she took up with more confidence than one should reasonably have for her stature. Her ego was also enormous, though that was something they both had in common.

"Satan," he greeted with a stoic expression.

She rolled her eyes, then strutted across the dimly lit room to pat him on the cheek like a child. Draco immediately shrugged away from any further gesture meant to belittle him. Astoria, he knew, was not one to engage in _endearing_ touches with purest intentions. It was something she and Hermione did _not_ have in common.

Astoria's lips twisted into a crooked smile, "Draco,"

"What do you want?"

She sighed, shoving past him to take his usual place in the armchair beside the bed. "Why do you _think_ I'm here?" Her jade green eyes bore into him with such vehemence he pondered for a moment if she blamed him for Hermione's current position. Then, unhelpfully, Draco couldn't help but question it himself. "So, it's true then?" She went on. "What Pans and Daph are saying?"

Draco pursed his lips, arching a tired brow.

"That she's a spy," clarified Astoria with as much impatience as he expected. It was another similarity between them, however detrimental it was to their relationship. Their temper. Draco nodded, and she shut her eyes, snapping them open with a swear. " _Fuck_. Penny doesn't exist then." He shook his head. "All this time…"

Draco nodded again. His eyes wandered from Hermione's chestnut curls to Astoria's jet-black hair, cascading down her back. Her head whipped around and he found himself pulled into the gravitation of her green eyes. They reflected the pain he knew all too well; the same pain that had plagued him for the past twenty-four hours.

"It was all a lie," she thought out loud. He shrugged, and she groaned. "I thought we were smarter than this, Draco." Astoria fumed, standing to pace the room. He watched, gaining a sense of déjà vu. "Was any of it real? Any of her? Five years… five _fucking_ years."

There were tears welling behind her jade green eyes, and Draco couldn't look away. She understood; as much as he expected Theo to, but with an intensified reaction beginning to rival that of his own.

"Here," he said, digging out the crumpled paper from his trousers and tossing it to her. She caught it with one hand, scrunching her face momentarily before opening it.

" _Snow White and the Seven Dwarves_?" She read aloud. Her tone reflected the exact same one Draco had used the first time he read it. It took until he reached the part about – "'Doc is the leader of the Seven Dwarves and whatever tasks seen through by the other six are undoubtedly his creation.'" Astoria read aloud, frowning up at Draco. "What the fuck is this?"

He motioned for her to keep reading, and so, she did.

"'Snow White was first greeted by Grumpy and Doc. Their truer selves emerged in front of the Evil Queen, yet it wasn't until they introduced her to the Forest Witch in their cottage that Snow White understood the depths of their sins.'" Astoria blinked. "Wait – Is this - "

"Yes." Draco said, cutting her off. "It began the night she came to the Manor." He explained, recalling the notes. They weren't difficult to decipher, if you knew the mind of their creator well. "At first, I thought Mother was - "

"The Evil Queen," breathed Astoria, biting her lip to stifle a chuckled. "No, it would make much more sense for her to be portrayed by the Forest Witch based on later passages." She continued to skim through the entries.

Draco could not contain his epiphany. "It's the Order," he realized, snatching the parchment from her small grasp. He reread the first line and felt immensely certain of his discovery. "Yes, that has to be it. The _Order_ is the Evil Queen. We ran into them on the drive back to the Manor and – I told her to stay in the car but - "

"But she didn't." Finished Astoria with a smirk. "Typical of her," she scoffed.

He agreed – fucking typical. Draco shifted to point to a line at the bottom of the page. "I guess that would make you the owl," he teased, taunting her with a smirk of his own. She scowled, taking the paper away from him to confirm it herself. While she did so, Draco recognized another important piece of information. "The last entry was from the night _you_ came back. Three years ago, almost to the day."

Astoria bristled.

"I remember it. That was also the time when she - "

"Yes." He acknowledged. "I know." Draco sighed. "I'm not sure what to make of it, to be honest." He caught her astonished gaze in his peripheral vision and scoffed under his breath. It was unbelievable, he agreed, that of all circumstances to bring Draco to open admission of his thoughts and feelings to Astoria, it would be this one. "Did she stop adding entries because she found another, more efficient method of communicating with the coppers outside? Did she simply move on to another parchment that remains to be found among my father's broken things?"

He paused and met Astoria's eye, certain that they were both hoping rather stupidly that it was his last theory.

"Or," he added, glancing at the woman that had yet to wake. "Did she stop for another reason entirely…"

Astoria cleared her throat. "I believe," she began, "that Hermione Granger is someone we either know very little about… or very much about." To which Draco agreed wholeheartedly, praying, despite his lack of faith, that it was the latter of the two scenarios.

* * *

The next morning was more or less the same as the morning before. Madam Pomfrey arrived as soon as the sun came up to check Hermione's vitals. Then, Narcissa – and now Astoria – came in following their breakfast. Draco's mother handed him a piece of toast and an apple, waiting with a disapprovingly arched brow for him to finish them both off before diverting her attention to Hermione. Draco swiped a cup of tea from Astoria and poured some whiskey in both of their cups when his mother wasn't looking.

The three of them sat around for hours.

They mostly discussed Malfoy Company Limited affairs since Draco chose to formally step back for the week in true fashion of a missing person. His mother, with the help of Astoria, Pansy, and Daphne, now ran the business. It was a smooth transition, and one they were familiar with following the war. Draco informed his mother subtly that he may need her to take ownership of the business full-time in the next coming months.

She pressed him for details, whispering low enough that no one else would hear, but he refused to answer.

After the two women left, Greg and Vince poked their heads in to see if Draco or Hermione – who they couldn't take their eyes off of the entire time – needed anything. He shook his head and waved them off to help run Graham's business while he was still away with the wife and kids. Madam Pomfrey came again during afternoon tea, and Draco watched, holding his breath, as she performed yet another vitals check. The midwife pursed her lips.

Nothing new; no change nor any explanation as to why she hasn't woken up yet.

Draco struggled not to let the panic seep into his veins. He forced a stoic expression across his face and bit the inside of his cheek as the healer swept out of the room. After tea and before supper was the only quiet time Draco had with Hermione anymore. He carefully selected a book from the bedside table, _Anna Karenina_ , and flipped to the page he left off on.

"Let's see what Vronsky has to say, shall we?"

It was unusual for Draco to read _to_ Hermione. Usually, when they were sitting in bed reading their own novels, she would turn to him and force him to listen to a passage that she found intriguing. It would spark intellectual conversation about plenty of controversial topics. Draco loved it. He loved banter with her, and he wanted nothing more for her to wake up and rip the novel out of his hands, claiming that he was ruining it by reading it wrong.

"It's Anna Kare-NEE-nah, not Kareni-NAH," he imagined she would say to him.

Draco sighed.

It had been a long time, weeks, since the last time they read to each other. An ugly thought crept into his mind. What if _Hermione_ wasn't a romantic novelist fanatic at all? What if her favorite author was not Emily Brontë? What if it was a fictitious fact made up to amplify her persona as _Penny_?

He folded the corner of the page, put the book down, and gripped her delicate fingers between his. They were cold but not unfamiliar. At night, he would wrap himself around her whenever she complained how cold she was despite the several luxurious duvets he adorned their bed with. But, again, what if none of it had been real? What if she had pretended to care for him simply to get close to him and unveil Death Eater plots and motives?

Draco felt sick.

Just as he splashed water on his face and gazed at his reflection in the bathroom mirror – sallow, pale, and with deep shadows forming under his eyes – the bedroom door burst open and Theo stormed in with Blaise on his heels.

He caught the end of their banter before emerging into the room to greet them.

"All I'm saying," exhaled Theo, "is that you need to be more careful."

" _Careful?_ " Shrieked Blaise.

"Yes."

"That's fucking hilarious, Nott. You are the _most_ reckless among all of us! I could say one word – one name – and prove my point for the rest of eternity, but I won't because I don't even _need_ to say it for you to see I'm right." He scoffed.

"First of all, fuck you," whined Theo in response, bringing a chuckle out of Draco as he leaned against the bed post. "Second of all, that is completely irrelevant because it has nothing to do with my gambling skills."

He paused, crossing his arms over his chest, then let his icy blue eyes fall on Draco. "How is she?" Draco shrugged. Theo scowled, "How are you?" Draco shrugged again. "Right, good talk. Not like we're here for you to lean against or on or whatever the bloody phrase is," Theo quipped with a flick of his wrist.

"Shocker," muttered Blaise as he strode across the room to perch against the window.

Draco sat next to Theo on the one side of the bed facing the window and waited a full minute before pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. Without being asked, Blaise reached behind him and propped to window open; the crisp winter air stung their cheeks instantly. Theo passed Draco a throw from the end of the bed, and he draped it over Hermione before lighting a cigarette.

"So," he said, exhaling a puff of smoke. "It went well, then?"

"As well as it _can_ go, I believe," Theo replied. He nodded to Blaise after passing along the pack and lighter to him. All three of them smoked in silence for another minute before Theo went on. "They're still fucking breathing," – "Which is a bloody shame," cut in Blaise – "but they won't be coming back to London any time soon."

"Good."

" _And_ ," continued Theo with a conspiratorial grin. "That fucking piece of shit copper will definitely be framed as soon as your little note gets out. Are you sure you don't want to send it, yet?" Draco nodded, giving no further explanation. Theo wouldn't need one, anyway, he was there for the original scheme this plan was based on. "Right," said Theo, "Well, Dobby will need to send it soon before the investigation into the explosion uncovers Shacklebolt and the RSAF weaponry."

"It'll get done." Draco assured him. He turned to Blaise, "Everything is accounted for?"

"Every last gun and bullet." Blaise confirmed. "The police will think the IRA fled with whatever they could get their hands on before the building collapsed once your note is sent to Slughorn. In the meantime, I put the two boxes of artillery downstairs in one of the blocks."

"Excellent." Draco stubbed the light out and gave his mates with a ghost of a smile. "They'll have to stay there until the soil lets up enough for us to bury them again. Theo?"

He shook his head. "Can't put them underneath the Cavalier's warehouse anymore, that would be far too predictable for anyone who knows us. The IRA, the Order…" His words drifted off as his eyes slid to the unconscious woman behind them. Her allegiance remained unknown, which was terrifying. "I was thinking of leaving them with Rosie," he added with a cough to clear his throat.

"Who?" Draco questioned the same time Blaise groaned, "Oh, for fuck's sake, Nott."

"Rosmerta. She runs the inn and bar I own with Nott Holdings." He paused, but both other men remained with confused expressions across their faces. Theo sighed. "The Three Broomsticks?"

"Oh," Blaise scoffed. "That bloody hole in the wall."

"It's not a bloody hole in the wall," snapped Theo. Draco bit the inside of his lips, preventing himself from chuckling at the offense Theo took. His properties were like his children, weirdly enough.

"It _is_ a bloody hole in the wall because you own it," replied Blaise with a smirk and a wink.

Theo fumed, but Draco shook his head and ushered them both out of the room. Clearly, their conversation was over. "Oi," said Theo with a snap of his fingers as the three men stood in the doorway. "There's something else I have to tell you." Draco patiently waited, lips pursed, to see what this ought to be about. Theo went on, "Potter mentioned that Shacklebolt was one of the head honcho's of the Order of the Phoenix - "

"We _know_ that now, Nott."

"Shut _up_ Zabini," retorted Theo. He dragged his glare away from the ebony mana and focused his pale blue eyes on Draco. "Because he was a substantial figure, and quite literally having them exist for the purpose of doing his dirty work, the whole bloody Order has fallen apart."

"Good riddance," muttered Blaise.

Theo shot him another look, then sighed. "Look, what _I'm_ hearing from Potter is that they're looking for a new leader. He says they're all running around like headless chickens now." Draco arched a brow, finally intrigued, and Theo took this as a signal to go on. "Now, I'm not saying _you_ should step in and give them direction, _but_ it would be worth thinking about throwing your support behind someone you trusted to be the leader of the New Order."

Draco smirked, "Let me guess, Nott, you have someone in mind?"

Theo beamed. "Abso- _fucking_ -lutely."

After hearing Theo's argument, Draco agreed. He let him run off to arrange what needed to be done in order to secure the position and place a leader for the New Order that would be under their influence. No less than forty seconds later, after Draco collapsed into the plush armchair, did his mother stroll in to disturb his hope of peace and quiet.

"Mother," he greeted.

"Draco," she said, pursing her lips. He sighed, sensing bad news in the stale air between them. "This came for you. No name or return address," she handed him a firm note, then lit a cigarette and leaned against the window frame.

He peered at the stiff postcard in his hand. On one side was a scenic lake with a snow-capped mountain range in the background and the words _Mount Cook_ scripted across the center. On the other side was one handwritten word, _Obliviate_. Draco frowned.

"Do you have any idea what it means?" Mother asked. He shook his head, placing the postcard on top of the pile of books on the nightstand. She narrowed her eyes at her son, "Do you know who the hell it's from?"

"Not in the slightest, Mother," he replied.

* * *

Draco woke with his back aching and Madam Pomfrey entering the room with a dry smile plastered on her wrinkled face. "Good morning, Mr. Malfoy," she said politely. Draco returned the greeting, then stood up and stretched his limbs. He called out for Dobby to bring in a cup of tea as he could not wait another hour for Astoria and his mother to arrive.

The scalding liquid soothed his throat, and he sat back in the armchair watching with desperate eyes as Madam Pomfrey performed her exam. Hermione's pinky twitched. Draco blinked. The movement was so miniscule that he paused with the teacup lifted halfway to his mouth.

There it was again –

"Holy fuck," he exhaled.

Draco nearly dropped the teacup as he hastily put it down. His eyes shifted from Hermione's finger to her lips when a soft groan emanated from them. Draco's head snapped up to meet Madam Pomfrey's eyes, and she confirmed, "She's waking up."

The familiar chocolate hue of her eyes warmed Draco's frigid exterior, melting him down to nothing. He hurried to her side, taking her dainty hands between his own, and didn't bother fighting the liquid welling behind his pale grey eyes; the salt of his tears stained his cheeks. The moment – the exact _second_ – she blinked and focused her eyes on him, every ounce of hatred and betrayal he felt towards her washed away. She was awake, alive, and _his_. He knew it in his cold heart that the woman lying in bed – who calls herself Hermione – is the same woman he shared a bed with (a life with) the past few years.

Nothing else mattered.

Draco waited, remarkably patiently, as Madam Pomfrey performed a cognitive exam on Hermione. The healer asked her several inquiries, where she was expected to prove her mental health remained intact. Suffice to say, Miss Hermione Granger had never failed an exam and would not be ruining that streak today. She passed with flying colors, identifying all of Madam Pomfrey's memory cards with ease. She successfully followed the elder woman's instructions, until Draco grew too impatient to watch her eyes trail the wrinkled finger for another minute.

"Alright," Draco interrupted. "That's enough. She's clearly well. You can leave." He arched a silver brow, daring the midwife to challenge him. She didn't – but, then again, who would?

"Draco," Hermione murmured in a slightly disapproving tone as Madam Pomfrey closed the bedroom door behind her. The soft gaze he missed so dearly the past few days landed on him.

"Hermione," he responded. Instantly, the small smile that had been creeping across her lips vanished. Where she had begun to lean towards him – gravitate even – Hermione blanched and shrank back between the plentiful of pillows. Draco noticed her insecurity and sinfully reveled in it for a moment before caressing her cheek. "Yes, I know. You don't have to be afraid. I won't hold any of your past against you."

There was an unspoken _if_ that hung in the space between them. He knew she was aware of what the silent threat entailed. _If_ her past remained in the past and didn't interfere with their future; _If_ she didn't give him a reason not to trust her going forward; _If_ her self-sacrifice for them had not been another ploy meant to entrap him and destroy his empire.

She nodded weakly.

"That's it – just like that?"

Draco's lips twitched into a smirk. "That's it." He confirmed. Then, when the stale air evaporated, he took the opportunity to be a bit cheeky. "Hermione Granger," he chuckled, toying with a loose strand of her hair. "Penelope Clearwater never suited you, anyway."

"You did say that I didn't look like a Penelope when we first met," she replied in the same flirtatious tone he used. He outright beamed and swept his tear stains away with the back of his free hand. Draco shook his head, laughing, and Hermione quickly joined in. "I knew you would never believe that was my name," she told him between giggles. "It was lucky that you made that one comment, giving me a reasonably believable name. Though, I still thought you would have made me at some point."

Her shyness returned, and Draco found himself tipping her chin toward him so that she would look him in the eyes. Careful not to lose his temper given the happy moment, he kept his tone light and playful.

"What did I say again?"

Hermione rolled her bottom lip between her teeth, and Draco fought the urge to draw her lips to his and bite them himself. Unaware of Draco's struggle to restrain himself, Hermione explained. "When we first met, you said I looked like a shiny new penny. Bronze and - "

"Eager to please," Draco finished. "I remember." He dropped his hand and backed away from her as his ears pricked. Seconds later, Astoria bounded into the room and nearly threw herself on top of Hermione. Draco bit back a malicious reprimand for her aggressive behavior after catching the relief on Hermione's face.

"Thank _fuck_ ," Astoria gasped. She leaned back, cupping the other woman's cheeks between her petite hands. "I thought you would never wake up." There was a quiver in her voice, alerting them to how upset the possibility made her. In true form of Astoria, she swiftly swept the comment under the rug and swatted Hermione lightly across her non-bandaged arm. "How dare you! You absolute _bitch_!"

Astoria grimaced, then broke out into a laugh to hide the awkward silence that followed her outburst.

"Astoria," Hermione began, sharing a nervous glance with Draco.

"She knows." He supplied. "They all do."

As expected, the rest of the family filed in to greet Hermione. The topic of her true identity, and the role it played in her fate in the Manor, was thoroughly avoided – like the plague. There was mindless chatter, banter readily provided by Theo and Blaise, and the occasional twitch of a smile from his mother which surprised Draco most of all.

After a few hours, the others left Draco and Hermione alone again. He leaned against the open window, his golden hair tangling in the chilling breeze. He swept the long strands aside and lit a cigarette. Draco let the silence set the tone for the conversation they were about to have; he let her anxiously shift in the bed as he exhaled a few rings of smoke.

"Hermione," he began.

Her eyes dilated, revealing how uncomfortable she was with him using her real name. He imagined how guilty and afraid she must feel, knowing his fondness for vengeance. Not to mention, his usual method in seeking retribution for those who wronged him – lied to him, especially – involved violence more times than it didn't.

Her fingers toyed with the wrapped bandage holding her torn shoulder together. Draco swallowed the memory of how she acquired the injury and took another long drag.

"According to Rita Skeeter, and the rest of the city's vermin, I am officially a missing person." He stated, glancing from the new layer of snow outside to the recognition in Hermione's brown eyes.

"I know," she replied. "I read the article."

He pursed his lips. "Yes, Theo noticed the paper in the backseat of the car on the way back to the Manor after… everything." Draco let out an awkward laugh, nearly choking on it. "He found you, by the way, because of Dobby." He paused, inhaling another nicotine-filled breath. "I wished to remain missing until you woke up… or until tomorrow. Whichever came first," he added offhandedly.

Hermione blanched and Draco had to admit it was a fresh wound. Still, it needed to be said aloud.

"The reason I'm telling you this is because I have a reason for remaining a missing person." Draco returned his grey gaze to the frozen gardenias. "I presume you have a few theories as to why I would want that."

It was a question as much as it was a pointed accusation; they knew each other too well.

She regarded him cautiously before replying. "Yes," she confirmed. "I trust, _beloved bachelor_ , that your absence has made the public's heart grow fonder. Whatever it is you're planning, exploiting their growing affection for you must be part of it. Though, I can't figure out why _my_ being awake would have anything to do with your plan. I don't know what day it is, either, much less the importance of tomorrow."

Draco put out the remainder of the cigarette and took his usual place in the armchair beside her bed. Hermione waited a few seconds before tilting her head and going on.

"There must be something special, an event, that you intend to appear at. I suppose you would like me to be on your arm, now that I'm conscious, when you arrive at the event." She paused, leaving room for him to confirm her theory thus far. Feeling rather benevolent, Draco nodded. Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "You're just going to show up, aren't you? No word in advance – simply reveal yourself to be alive and well like a bloody magic trick."

He rolled his eyes.

"Do I look like a fucking wizard to you?" Draco countered. Though, she wasn't wrong. Instead of admitting to this, however, he moved on in the conversation. "Yes, I would like you to be on my arm, as I have an important announcement to make that involves both of us."

"Which is…?"

Draco disregarded her question.

"If I'm being honest, Hermione," he said, casually slipping a condescending inflection at the end of the comment. "I got the idea from the late Commander Shacklebolt."

"He's dead?" She asked. This time, Draco mutely answered her query. He nodded, and she exhaled a shaky breath. "Good." Then, Hermione pursed her lips, "Are you planning on joining the London metropolitan police – or organizing a foundation with them?"

"No," he scoffed. "I want nothing to do with those bloody coppers." At her open confusion, Draco smirked. "They play dirty, yourself included, of course," – Hermione blanched, grimacing at the snide remark, but Draco went on with a casual smile across his face – "I plan on playing dirtier, per usual."

Taking her hand in his, they both physically relaxed at the shared touch.

"Law enforcement is precisely the problem." He said. Though Draco employed many coppers to do his dirty work – or at the very least, look the other way while it went on – he never fully trusted them. He especially did not respect them, or the law. Clearly. "All coppers are fools. They believe they have all of the power, all of the control, over the city and its citizens, but they don't. They _enforce_ the law. Nothing more."

Hermione's thick brows furrowed.

"They enforce the law," he repeated. "They are bound by it."

"Aren't we all?" Hermione interrupted, earning a smug look from Draco.

"Some more than others," he countered with a smirk. She gave him her best disapproving pout, and his smirk widened. "Death Eaters aside," he went on, receiving a playful eye roll from her, "There are others who can rise above the law."

She waited patiently during his theatrical pause.

"There are those who are strictly bound to uphold the law because it is their responsibility to _enforce_ it," said Draco. "They are the pawns in life's game of chess. They are the first defense and the first sacrifice made when trouble comes knocking. I have no aspiration to be a pawn, nor do I wish to navigate the board protecting a spineless king," Draco added. "If I have to play as any other piece other than a king, then I wish to be the piece most trusted by them – the one with the most influence over the board."

"The queen," breathed Hermione.

"Yes," he grinned, unable to hide his pride in her intelligence. Twisting his lips into a more appropriate show of his devious intentions, Draco smirked. "The queen commands the board. Why?"

"She has the most freedom," she answered without hesitation. The spark behind her warm eyes sent chills up Draco's spine. "The queen has the capability to move all over the board. She is generally regarded as the most useful, influential, coveted piece on the board." Her eyes narrowed again, and she added, "What does this have to do with your master plan to reappear in public – with Shacklebolt?"

"The queen commands the board. She is in _complete_ control and has the most freedom, as you mentioned. If the pawns are the coppers in our world, then what does that make the queen?" Draco paused, anxious to see if Hermione was piecing together his puzzle as quickly as he expected her to. "Who doesn't enforce the law, but controls it? Who _writes_ the law?"

The question hung in the air between them for half a heartbeat until comprehension of what Draco meant clicked in Hermione's clever mind. "You must be joking," she murmured. He shook his head. "No, absolutely not." She said, sitting up straighter in the bed and wincing. "How exactly do you plan on - "

"The public loves me." He stated, cutting her off with a shrug. "It won't be an issue. Especially," Draco paused, glancing at Hermione's bandage first, then abdomen second, "if they have something more than just my looks and money to rally behind." He leaned in, placing a quick kiss to her lips, "Something _real_ and pure," he shifted to pull the duvet back and brushed his knuckles across Hermione's abdomen. It was remarkably flat, though, he supposed, it was a new revelation for both of them.

Hermione's gaze dropped momentarily.

"You know about that, too?"

Draco nodded.

"Oh," she said. Then, her fingers covered his over her stomach, and a small smile stretched across her chapped lips. "You're not upset about it?"

His silver brows furrowed. Draco stood and joined her in the bed, pulling her close to him while being careful not to twist her injured arm. "Never," he admitted in a soft murmur. "I wish you would have _told_ me, but - "

"I didn't know," she confessed, interrupting him. Her head lifted from its place in the crook of his neck, and when her brown eyes met his grey ones, he melted again. "I swear," Hermione said. "I had no idea. You mother figured it out, actually." She let out an awkward laugh. "I was so afraid I would lose it," Hermione whispered, and Draco suddenly went cold.

Images of her bleeding out on the kitchen island flashed behind his eyes, followed by Madam Pomfrey paying exceptionally close attention to her health the past few days (not to mention his mother having the midwife already tending to Hermione).

"I will _never_ let anything happen to… it," he promised.

She sighed, falling back against him and placing a gentle kiss at the base of his neck.

"So," Hermione began, tracing circles in his palm. "Government, then? That's your master plan."

Draco rested his head against the headboard. "Not simply government," he said, "I am going to run for a seat in parliament." The admission alone, brought goosepimples to his pale skin. There was a murmur of a swear under Hermione's breath, and Draco chose to finally get to the point he'd been dying to make. "Members of parliament can take the law into their hands; they have the ability to write new laws, amend old ones, and debate the proposal of other laws they don't fancy."

Hermione inhaled sharply.

"There is, however, one crucial aspect to this new role I wish to take on that requires _your_ valued input." Draco knew he was laying it on a bit thick, though he sincerely hoped Hermione wouldn't necessarily call him out on that just yet. After a beat of silence, he went on, "I wish to represent the people, and appeal to them in the most plausible way imaginable. So," he steeled himself for the next part, "I would like to portray the image of a loving family, complete with a doting wife on my arm."

She blinked.

Draco panicked in the absence of a response, "I know we haven't had a proper chance to discuss marriage or our future or anything of the sort, but," he sighed. "I want it. I want a life with you outside of the plan. Screw the entire plan, actually, I wanted to propose to you long ago. I apologize it took almost losing you to realize that appropriate timing is absolute fuckery." His fingers swept across her bare abdomen, "We are expecting a child, and I want to be married to his mother before I meet him. I do."

Hermione's warm chocolate eyes scanned his. "What makes you think it's a boy?"

Draco choked on a laugh, forcing it into a cough. "I just have a feeling," he smirked. He sobered his expression into one more suitable for his inner turmoil at her avoiding giving him an answer. "So," Draco swallowed. "What do you say, Hermione, do you fancy marrying me?"

"Hm," murmured Hermione against his lips. She gave him a sweet kiss, then backed away a few inches to meet his steady grey gaze. "Only if I'm asked properly."

Draco shook his head, murmuring, "Extraordinarily puzzling," under his breath. He slid off the mattress and dropped down on one knee.

"Miss Hermione Granger," said Draco with a smile on his face. "Will you marry me?"

**THE END.**

* * *

**A/N -** I cannot _believe_ this story is complete. I cannot thank each and every one of you enough for following along and bringing me so much joy. I should have the first chapter of the sequel posted by Friday so, be on the look out for that! Until then... xx

The chapter title comes from Ariana Grande's song featuring 2 Chainz titled _7 Rings (Remix)_ from the lines _been through some bad shit, I should be a sad bitch / who would've thought it turned me to a savage?_


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